A Lonely Path
by la baguette
Summary: At age ten, Harry disappeared. Four years later, a suspiciously familiar boy is found. Remus accepts the task of reintroducing him to the wizarding world, Harry resisting all the while. Where has he been? Will he ever learn to trust? Implied child abuse
1. Prologue

**Summary:** At the age of ten, Harry Potter disappeared off the face of the Earth. After months of hunting on the part of the Ministry and the Order, Harry is presumed dead and the search is called off. Four years later, a mysterious and suspiciously familiar boy is found. Remus takes on the task of reintroducing him to the wizarding world, Harry resisting every step of the way. Why did he leave? Where has he been? And most of all, will he ever trust anyone again? (Contains implications of child abuse)

* * *

**Prologue**

**Minerva McGonagall** sat comfortably at her desk. The firelight danced across the stacks of parchment she was slowly making her way through. It was that time of the year again. The summer was drawing to a close and she was dutifully signing the letters addressed to each of the students who were to be attending Hogwarts the coming year. She found she quite enjoyed the repetitive task, her quill making the same confident strokes over and over and over. Some might think the assignment dull, but she found it relaxing: soaking in the warmth of the fire, listening to the scribbling of the enchanted quill that was addressing the envelopes, the rustling of parchment as the booklists magically folded themselves.

Pausing in reminding Zachary Stebbins to catch the train on September 1st, she removed her square spectacles, laid them carefully on her desk, leaned back in her chair, and shut her eyes. She intended to take full advantage of the last few weeks of peace before the students returned. She was just contemplating taking a break to make a pot of tea and indulge in a few Ginger Newts when she noticed how quiet it was in the room. The magical quill had halted its systematic scribbling despite the thick stack of envelopes still to be addressed

Never having known of this happening before, it was with some curiosity that Professor McGonagall walked around the desk to see what was wrong. The emerald green quill was poised motionless over the paper as though awaiting dictation. On the envelope was written only one line of text, nothing more.

McGonagall frowned concernedly. A students name shone clearly in the still drying green ink, but no address was written below it. The quill was charmed to replicate the names and directions offered to it by the Trace Spell placed by the Ministry on all minors based on their magical signature. But for some reason, with this student it did not appear to be working.

Unsure of how best to act, McGonagall stared at the envelope for a moment longer. This specific name gave her particular reason to be nervous. And so, making up her mind, she turned on her heel, strode quickly over to the door and wrenched it open. Albus would know what to do. He always did.

Behind her, still lying on the desk, a single drop of emerald ink fell from the tip of the quill and landed with a splatter on the envelope, just below the words, _Mr H. Potter_.


	2. 1 First Sightings

**Chapter 1  
First Sightings**

**Hogwarts Castle** was bustling with the usual end of term activity. Trunks were being stacked in the entrance hall ready for transport to Hogsmead Station, owls were hooting indignantly from the confinement of their cages, students rushed back to their dormitories for forgotten items, friends called 'Happy Christmases' to each other from across the Great Hall. Remus watched all this with a sad smile on his lips.

He loved teaching, he could not imagine a job he could ever prefer, and Merlin knew he'd had enough of them over the years. He knew he was lucky to have the position here, given what he was; Dumbledore was a saviour. But all the same, as much as he adored Hogwarts, there were so many painful memories to be awakened here. This was Remus's second year teaching and yet still he found himself making undesired trips down memory lane every time he turned a corner.

At the moment, he was consumed by a memory of James and Sirius's parting Christmas gift in fourth year. They had bewitched Filch to let loose with Christmas carols in loud belches every time he opened his mouth. It had caused a great deal of amusement among the students at the time and even some of the staff, though they were better adept at hiding it. Remus snorted at the memory before the smile slid off his lips.

He didn't want to think about that. Those days were gone. The Marauders were no more; James and Peter were long dead and Sirius in Azkaban for bringing them to that state. It was amazing that after fourteen years it could still sting so bitterly. But then again, how does anyone ever really get over that? They were Remus's best friends—his only friends, if truth be told. He had no one else in the world. Except for Harry. But he was lost from him now, as well.

Harry. His best friend's son. Harry had been one of Remus's only reasons to go on living. The hope that he would be reunited with James and Lily's son one day, the baby he had held in his arms when his friends had still been alive. He knew now it was foolish to even hope for such a thing. He knew, but he found himself doing it anyway.

It had been nearly four years since Harry had disappeared without a trace. No one had even realised he was missing until Hogwarts had tried to contact him before what would have been his first year. Remus would never forget the feeling. He was still sick with shame. He should have been there for Harry over all those years. Dumbledore had insisted that Harry grow up in isolation from the wizarding world and that Remus not visit him. But now, in hind sight, all Remus could think was that he should have told Dumbledore to shove it. Maybe if he had shown a backbone then, he would have noticed when Harry vanished before the trail was too cold to follow.

He never understood why the Dursleys had not reported Harry missing. Upon being questioned on Harry's whereabouts, they had said, showing an extraordinary amount of apathy, that the boy had disappeared two or three months previous. They had assumed he had run away, but, considering his history, most of the wizarding world had a less optimistic opinion. Too many people wanted Harry dead, even if Voldemort was out of the picture. Most believed he had been kidnapped and murdered. How else could he have disappeared so completely?

Half of the Ministry had been relieved of their normal duties to go out and look for Harry, not to mention the elaborate search party Dumbledore had pulled together from members of the Order of the Phoenix. But not the faintest hint ever showed up. Not so much as a hair. He was just gone. The most troubling issue had been that the Trace was broken. Two things were supposed to do this: coming of age, and death. It seemed the much less desirable of these two was the much more likely.

And so, after months of turning up nothing, people began to resign themselves to the fact that the Boy Who Lived was lost forever. Remus's brain accepted this. The problem was, he just couldn't get his heart to agree.

Remus's chest ached as he looked around the Great Hall, glittering splendidly in its Christmas decorations. Harry would never see this. If things had turned out the way they should have, Harry would have been one of his students. He would be in his fourth year now. Remus couldn't stop himself from speculating about what he would be like. What house he would be in, who he would be friends with, whether he'd be on the Quidditch team or in the Charms club, whether he'd be terrorizing the school, the same as his father.

_He's gone, you old fool, _Remus berated himself for the millionth time in the past few years._ He's gone and he's not coming back. What good does it do to dwell on it? _Remus was beginning to think he was addicted to heartbreak. It was his natural state. He just didn't seem to know any other way to live. He half suspected Dumbledore had given him this job merely in an attempt to keep Remus too busy to obsess over Harry. Most uncharacteristically, however, if this was Dumbledore's plan, it didn't work.

* * *

**It was Kingsley** Shacklebolt's much-needed day off. Forever had passed, it seemed, since he had last had the opportunity to just spend a day of frivolity with his son. It was an unusually bitingly cold winter. The snow had been falling thickly outside the window of their London flat when they had awoken that morning, causing Michael to bounce off the walls at the rare prospect of snowball fights and sledding.

They had immediately bundled up and made their way toward the nearby snow-laden Victoria Park and situated themselves in a secluded corner on the edge of the nearly solid Bathing Pond. They spent the morning enjoying the weather and each other's company. After an epic snowball fight, Michael set to work constructing a snowman, mittened hands packing doggedly.

Kingsley pulled off a glove and shook out some ice before returning it to his hand. Now that they had stopped running about so much, he was beginning to feel the cold. A man was selling cups of hot cocoa and tea at a little booth nearby, taking advantage of the throng of people out to enjoy the snow.

"Pretty cold out here, huh?" he said to Michael. The boy nodded in response but did not look up from his work. "Would you like a cup of cocoa?"

"Yes, please," Michael responded still intent on his work.

Kingsley frowned for a moment, thinking, but he quickly decided not to interrupt the vital task Michael seemed to be in the middle of. "You stay right here, you hear? Don't move. I'll be right back. I'm just going right over there." He pointed. Michael nodded again without looking.

"You have that snowman finished when I get back. Here," he took off his scarf and held it out to Michael. "We wouldn't want him getting cold, now would we?"

Kingsley turned and trudged up the hill toward the vendor. He joined the short queue, glancing over his shoulder to see that Michael wasn't getting into any mischief. Michael was now determinedly tying the scarf around the neck of his snowman, tongue between his teeth.

"Some weather, isn't it?"

Kingsley turned to see the man next to him in line smiling in a friendly manner at him. "Sure is."

"You here with the family?"

"My son. Yourself?"

"Wife and daughters. They're four and six. They've never seen a snow like this. How old's yours?"

"Eight," Kingsley replied.

They continued exchanging pleasantries until the line had moved on. Kingsley got to the little booth, requested two hot chocolates, and fumbled with the unfamiliar Muggle money. Once he had successfully paid the man, he picked up the two paper cups, said his thanks, and moved away carefully, trying not to spill.

He glanced up, about to tell the man he had been chatting with to have a nice day, but the words died on his lips when he heard a sound that made his heart stop. The crack of ice, a short scream, quickly cut off. And silence.

Kingsley whipped around. Michael's snowman was standing, lonely at the base of the hill, the wind playing with the fringe of the scarf around its neck. Kingsley's heart was in his throat as his eyes raked the area, and sure enough, his worst fears were confirmed. Out on the pond, a jagged hole had been newly formed in the ice, ripples of water radiating outward.

Kingsley's brain had turned off. Instinct kicked in. Everything felt fuzzy. He couldn't think, he couldn't feel. He was completely numb. All he knew was that he was running. He didn't remember starting to run. He didn't remember dropping the hot cocoas. But he was running.

He was vaguely aware that there was someone ahead of him, a figure lithely making his way out onto the ice toward the jagged hole, but his numbed brain couldn't seem to register it fully. All he knew was that just as Kingsley was reaching the bank, the figure ahead of him was reaching the hole. One moment the man was plunging his hand into the icy water and the next he was kneeling on solid ground with his arms around the dripping wet huddled figure of his son.

It didn't make any sense. They must have been ten metres out on the ice and then, within a fraction of a second, they were just two paces away, crouching safely on the bank. It just didn't make sense. Somewhere in his numb brain, Kingsley knew this. But right at that moment, he didn't care.

He didn't stop to think. He crossed the last two steps to his son and pulled him into his arms. Both of them sat there for a moment, gasping for breath, eyes shut tight, Kingsley repeating over and over "What were you thinking, what were you _thinking?_" under his breath. He didn't know whether he was talking to Michael or to himself.

Gradually, neural function seemed to return. Kingsley felt his muscles begin to unclench, his heart rate slowed, his breathing quieted, and cognition returned. There was something not right here; something that defied the laws of nature. He pulled back and looked Michael over with concern, trying to figure out what his brain was telling him. And suddenly it hit him.

Michael was dry. His skin was pale and clammy and he was shivering uncontrollably, but he was _dry_. It was enough to jar Kingsley's memory to the unexplained Apparition to the bank. At first he supposed Michael must have done accidental magic. He thought vaguely of what a pleasant thank-you gift it would be to the man who had saved him when he would have to wipe his memory.

But slowly, as he looked at Michael, he realised he was not in any state to have performed magic, certainly not in the magnitudes necessary to Apparate or to dry himself. But _someone _did magic, and that just left…

For the first time, Kingsley looked up at his son's saviour, and once again his mind went numb. He wondered vaguely just how much abuse his heart could take before he needed to visit the cardiac ward of St. Mungo's. His gaze had met a very familiar pair of green eyes. Eyes he had not seen for over thirteen years, but eyes he would know anywhere.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for all the reviews and the like. I was rather surprised that tiny little blip of a prologue actually got any response; I wasn't expecting it to. Because _SlytherinLuna _asked and because I think it's worth mentioning, the point of view is going to be changing a great deal in this story. I could pretend this is because of artistic preference, but it's mostly just because I couldn't think of any other way to show all the different sides of the story from one person's POV. Next chapter you should get your first view into Harry's head. Anyway, please review! I'm very new to the world of fanfiction and this is not my usual type of story. I'd love to know what people think, whether complimentary or not.

Cheers!  
Baguette


	3. 2 The Rules

**Chapter 2  
The Rules  
**

**Kingsley's jaw** dropped open. _How was this possible? _He stared deep into those eyes—Lily's eyes—as if expecting to find an answer within their depths. Maybe it was a mistake. A coincidence. With difficulty, he tore his eyes away and raked them up to the boy's forehead. There, just visible behind the fringe of messy black hair was a thin, lightning-shaped scar. Kingsley couldn't speak, he couldn't move, couldn't hear. He knew he was staring at the boy's face like a madman, but he couldn't seem to stop. It suddenly occurred to him that the boy's lips were moving. Words seemed to be coming out but they were getting lost somewhere between Kingsley's ears and his brain.

"What?" he asked vaguely.

The boy frowned, seeming very uncomfortable with the way Kingsley was looking at him. "I said, 'is he okay?' The kid? Should I call for an ambulance?"

Kingsley's numbed brain gradually realised he was still sitting on the frozen ground, arms crushing Michael to his chest. Michael had his face buried in the crook of his father's neck and was still shaking like mad, but no permanent damage seem to be done. Thanks to Harry. Harry Potter. His head reeled as he thought the name.

"I think he'll be alright," Kingsley replied monotonously. "But I should get him indoors and warmed up." He looked back up at Harry. He was wearing a most peculiar expression. Part concern, to be sure, but mostly what seemed to be fear and, if Kingsley wasn't mistaken, mortification. Kingsley couldn't understand the meaning of it.

The boy nodded slowly, but the concern was still evident. "Are_ you_okay?"

"I'm—" Kingsley paused. How was he? There were too many emotions in his head, jostling for position. "I'm so grateful. To you," He finally decided on. "Please, will you not come back to our flat for a hot drink, some refreshment? It's not far from here, and I'd like to thank you properly."

Quite suddenly, the boy's face shifted. The concern seemed to be overcome by the fear. He slowly took a step back, away from Kingsley. "I— No. Thank you, but I really must get to work." He took another step back.

Kingsley abruptly realised the predicament he was in. His paternal instinct was waging a desperate struggle with his duty to the Ministry, to Dumbledore, to Lily and James. He had to get Michael home where he could patch him up without Muggles there watching. But how was he going to find Harry again? It seemed clear that he was not going to simply walk into the house of a total stranger, nor be particularly forthcoming with personal contact information.

Kingsley's mind was racing. He thought about simply revealing everything to the boy. Jumping up and hugging him, telling him how long they had been searching for him, how everyone had thought him dead. There were so many questions Kingsley wanted to ask: where he had been, who had taken him from the Dursleys'. But even as the possibility occurred to him, a little voice in his head was telling him to be cautious, that if he overwhelmed the boy, he would lose him forever.

"Where do you work?" _That's it, Kingsley, keep it light, friendly. Just making polite conversation._

Harry took a moment to respond. He seemed to be fighting with himself, not wanting to be rude but not wanting to impart too much information either. "…I'm a grocer's assistant. Just a small shop in Bethnal Green," he said finally. Another step back. "And I do need to get going." Step.

Kingsley began to panic. He was going to lose him. "Please! Will you not give me your name, how I can reach you. I am so indebted to you, I—"

The boy began to turn. "I'm late for my shift. And as you said, you need to get your son indoors." And with that turned and walked away.

Kingsley watched him go. South. Tomorrow they would organise a search. But for now, he had to see to Michael.

* * *

_**What were **__you thinking? What the _hell_ were you thinking! _How could he have done…_that_…right in the middle of a public place? In full view of a complete stranger! He was a fool. A complete and utter idiot, entirely lacking in the most basic instincts for self-preservation. First rule in his life: never draw attention to yourself. Keep your head below the ridgeline. It was a rule you never broke. It was following this rule that had kept him alive throughout his childhood. And here he had gone and done "you-know-what" as his Uncle would have called it, where anyone could have seen him. _You _sodding _idiot!  
_  
And yet, even as he berated himself, he knew that if he were to face the situation again, he would do exactly the same thing. He could not have sit back and let that boy die if there was anything he could have done to stop it. He would never have been able to live with himself if he had. And so he had let instinct take over. Rushed in there like some kind of bloody hero and teleported (or whatever it was he'd done) the kid out of there.

The boy glanced over his shoulder for the millionth time and sped up his pace. He knew he was being silly. The man was just some random bloke who was grateful that he'd saved his son's life. There was no way he was following. The guy had been so distraught about his son he hadn't even seemed to notice the kid had been mysteriously dried. Still, silly or not, there was something odd about the way the man had been looking at him. He had stared at his scar. With recognition. And then trying to get him to go back to his home, trying to find out his name and where he worked. He didn't like it.

"Liam, yer late. Wha' kept choo?" Mr. Bernards called over the till at him. Then, without waiting for an answer, "New shipment in terday. S'in the back."

"I'll get right on it, Mr. B.," the boy called back, grabbing an apron from behind the till and heading toward the storage room to stock the produce.

Mr. B. was coarse, crude, and uncouth. And he was the closest thing the boy had to family, friends, any form of connection. Not that that was saying much, of course; the boy didn't socialise much. That was the second rule. Never need people. The minute you started to rely on someone, you handed them power over you. And the minute they had power over you, they could turn it against you, crush you, rip out your heart and toss it to the dogs. The boy didn't need that. He got on just fine by himself, thank you very much.

In the storage room, the boy knelt by a crate and began dutifully sorting through artichokes, thinking about the day's events. He had taken a risk and it had been foolish, but things had worked out okay this time. Just as long as he didn't do something like that again, he should be fine. Just follow the third rule. The most simple and the most important. The rule for which all the other rules existed.

Don't get caught.

* * *

**A/N:**Sorry, such a short chapter, but I figured you lot might prefer more frequent updates to long waits with long chapters…plus it just seemed like a logical place to end. Thanks very much for all the reviews, and favourites, etc. I'd love it if a few more might tell me what you think, though (hint hint).

Cheers!  
Baguette


	4. 3 Of Newspapers and Nightmares

**Chapter 3  
Of Newspapers and Nightmares  
**

**Cornelius Fudge** sat at his desk in the Ministry of Magic, thinking. His approval ratings had dropped again. He was in desperate need of a publicity stunt. Something that would return voter confidence, remind them of who he was, convince them that he was worthy of reelection. He ran a hand through his balding hair in frustration.

Just at that moment, there came a knock on his office door.

"Enter," called Fudge, and in walked Rufus Scrimgeour, the head of the Auror Office with Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt. "What can I do for you, gentlemen?"

"Minister. Shacklebolt here has some information we felt should be shared with you." Scrimgeour's face was blank, but Shacklebolt seemed torn between excitement and nervousness.

"Do you, now? What might that be?"

"It concerns Harry Potter, Minister. I've seen him."

This was not what he'd expected. Fudge sat in stunned silence for a moment, gaping at Shacklebolt as though he'd gone mad. "Harry Potter?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes, sir."

"But…that's not possible," he spluttered. "The boy died…years ago, now." He remembered it well; publicity nightmare. That had been the start of all his problems in office. People coming after _him_ for not keeping closer tabs on some little boy. Honestly, as if that was his responsibility. But just maybe…here was his opportunity to undo it.

"How can you be so sure? Where was this?"

"Victoria Park, here in London this morning. And it was him. Lily and James were good friends of mine, and I'm telling you, there was no mistaking the boy. He looks exactly like James, except the eyes. He has Lily's eyes."

"That's not much to go on. After so much time…the mind can play tricks—"

"He had the scar." That shut Fudge up. "It was there. On his forehead, like lightning. It's him, Minister."

Fudge was silent for a moment, letting all this sink in. "You say you saw him this morning? It is nearly five o'clock. Why has it taken this long for me to hear about this? And why was he not brought in?"

"It seems," said Scrimgeour coldly, "that Shacklebolt had better things to do today."

"My son was ill…hurt. I told you this. I did what I thought was necessary under the circumstances, and you would have done the same," replied Shacklebolt stoically. He turned back to Fudge. "Harry refused to come back with me, but, Minister, I did manage to get him to tell me generally where he works. Allow me to organise a search, and I know I can find him."

"I am displeased you failed to bring him in today. Find him tomorrow and I'll forget it. Bring Dawlish with you, and start first thing in the morning. This time tomorrow, I want to be reading about Harry Potter's triumphant return to the wizarding world in the _Evening Prophet_, is that understood?"

This was just what he needed. Just think of what this could do for his approval ratings! Minister Cornelius Fudge reunites long lost Potter with his world. Potter would be so grateful to him, look on Fudge as the father he'd never had. The press would love it.

"Of course, Minister," Shacklebolt was saying, "but if I may add…Professor Dumbledore was highly involved in the search for Harry three and a half years ago. He would likely wish to be kept informed—"

"No!" said Fudge a little too quickly. "No. We do not want to raise anyone's hopes until we are sure it is really him. Sure that we can find him. Dumbledore will be informed when he needs to be. Now I'm sure you both have much to be getting on with, gentlemen, as have I. Good night and best of luck with the search."

As the two men left, Fudge heaved a sigh of relief. This was to be _his_ glorious find, not Dumbledore's. No one would be able to say he leaned on the old coot for this! He smiled as he packed up his briefcase for the night, imagining how the headlines would read: _Boy-Who-Lived Gives Thanks to the Minister of Magic_. _Ministry Brings Our Long-Lost Hero Home_. No. Cornelius Fudge _Brings Our Long-Lost Hero Home_.

Yes that had a much better ring to it.

* * *

** "This is a** waste of time. Did you ever stop to think about just how _big _London is? He could be anywhere."

"We'll find him. We know he works in a grocery store in Bethnal Green. That narrows it down."

"Unless he lied," Dawlish muttered under his breath, not quite quietly enough.

Kingsley ignored him, looking down at the compiled list of grocers in the area. "Next one is on St. James Avenue and Bonner Road. There was an alley over that way. We can Apparate from there."

"Don't know what you were thinking. If you'd just grabbed the kid and brought him in yesterday, we wouldn't be stuck doing this. We're never going to find him. How many grocers do we need to talk to before you accept that? We've already been to six." He rubbed his hands together and blew on them for warmth.

Kingsley gritted his teeth. They'd find him. They had to.

* * *

** "CLIMBING SCHOOL **BUILDINGS?"

"Please, Uncle Vernon, let me expl—"

SMACK

"Don't you even start with me, boy! Don't think I don't know what's really happened here!" Uncle Vernon's large purple hand shot out closed tightly around the Harry's throat. He lowered his face until he was mere centimetres away. Harry could feel his hot sticky breath on his cheek where it was still burning from being backhanded. "You were doing _you-know-what_. I told you I wouldn't have any of that _freakishness _in my house."

Harry was struggling to bring oxygen to his lungs. Instinctively his hands came up to claw ineffectually at Uncle Vernon's fingers. "Please, Uncle…I can't…breathe…"

"Speak when I tell you to," said Uncle Vernon with loathing, tossing the boy to the floor so hard he slid across the hard wood floor to crash into the wall.

Harry lay where he fell, planting both hands flat on the ground to steady his reeling head as he gasped for breath, head hanging between his shoulders.

"Lift up your shirt." Uncle Vernon's voice was curt and business-like. Behind him, Harry heard the sounds of Uncle Vernon sliding off his belt. A sound he knew too well.  
_  
Oh, God, not again._ Harry squeezed his eyes shut but did not move. He knew it was worse when he didn't comply, but he just couldn't bring himself to make things easier for his Uncle. Vernon growled in annoyance, reached down and yanked Harry's shirt up past his shoulders.

Harry braced himself, fingernails digging into the floor, eyes pinched tight, teeth biting into his lip until he tasted blood. He felt rather than heard Uncle Vernon take a step back, grip the belt by the buckle, raise his fist above his head.

The belt made a whistling noise as it whipped through the air. Harry gritted his teeth in preparation. A burning pain lashed across the exposed skin of his back and—

The boy sat up with a great gasp of air. He sat for a moment, breathing hard, trying to remember where he was. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it would bruise his ribs. He shivered and realised he was drenched in a cold sweat. He ran a hand across his face and pulled himself out of bed, stumbling over to the miniscule bathroom of his flat. He turned on the tap, the ancient plumbing doing its usual spluttering gurgle of a start. He planted his hands on either side of the sink, fingers gripping the porcelain as he waited for the water to get hot. Closing his eyes, he let his head hang limply much as he had all those years ago when his uncle had...

As steam began to rise from the water, the boy looked up and met the gaze of his reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink. He looked pale and gaunt, his eyes red rimmed. He hadn't dreamed about…that…for while. He wondered vaguely what had brought it on.

Letting out a sigh, the boy cupped the now scalding water in his hands and brought it to his face. He shut off the water with his left wrist and again raised his head to stare at his now dripping reflection. God, he looked like shite. He sighed again and turned to fill the bathtub. Thank God he didn't have to work today. He was going to soak until next Wednesday. He stripped off his sweat-drenched t-shirt, tossing it into the hamper, and stretched his shoulder across his chest until he felt it pop.

Behind him, the mirror over the sink reflected a back which was crisscrossed with a series of pale scars.

* * *

**Bethnal Green** Road and Derbyshire. _Ninth one the charm?_

Kingsley looked up from his list at the shop. It was just a small market store crammed in between a dozen like it, more of a garage than anything. The front of the store opened out to the street, and tables piled high with fruits and vegetables spilled out in disarray under a dingy blue awning as though someone had intended to rearrange them later.

Inside a round, middle-aged man stood behind an ancient till, ringing up a women purchasing a bushel of asparagus. The man was chatting raucously with the woman while she nodded and smiled in polite response, only too clearly looking to escape. Well, at least he wasn't likely to be tight-lipped when they questioned him.

Kingsley glanced around the store, looking for a particular face, but if Harry was here, he must be in the back. A tall gangly boy with blond hair was mopping up a spill in an aisle which seemed to feature those odd fizzy drinks Muggles were so fond of.

When the woman had finally taken her asparagus and moved on, Kingsley and Dawlish moved up to the counter. "What can I ge' choo, gents?"

"We're looking for someone. A teenage boy, small, skinny, about a hundred and fifty centimetres, black hair, wears it rather long and messy, green eyes, glasses, scar on his forehead…"

The man looked suddenly suspicious. He mopped a hand across his forehead and smoothed his greasy black comb-over. "You coppers?"

"Sorry?" Kingsley asked?

"Bobbies. Scotland Yard?"

"Yes." Kingsley said it definitively in the hope that the man would overlook his slip. Apparently it wasn't enough for him, however, and when he continued to look suspicious Kingsley pulled out a wallet, flipped it open, and showed it to the grocer.

The man stared at it for some time, tracing his lip with a finger before nodding to indicate he was satisfied. Kingsley returned it to his pocket. The wallet was bewitched to show the viewer whatever identification he expected to see. Standard Auror issue, but Kingsley was grateful to it, not for the first time.

"Sounds like Liam, if e'er ther was anyone wot did."

"Liam?" Kingsley prompted, excitement pounding in his veins.

"Aye."

Damn him, the man could have talked your ear off a moment before, and he was choosing _now_to be withdrawn? "And he works for you?"

"Tha's right. Choo want 'im for? No' in any trouble now, is 'e? 'E's a good kid, is Liam. Never seen him go an' do nuffink wrong in 'is life."

"No, he's not in any trouble, but it's vitally important that we find him. Is he here?" Kingsley felt his heart pounding. Could he be minutes away from seeing Harry again?

"Nah."

Kingsley waited for him to continue, gritting his teeth in annoyance. When the man stayed silent, picking at a spot on his lip, Dawlish was the first to lose patience. "So where is he?"

"Damned if I know. S'is day off. Keeps 'imself to 'imself, does Liam. Quiet like. Dunnit talk too much ter anyone. 'E comes in five times o' week, does 'is work, collects a paycheck, an' leaves."

Frustration was rising. Out of the corner of his eye, Kingsley saw Dawlish fingering his wand in his pocket. "But you must have employee records of some kind," said Kingsley, grasping at anything that could help. "That would have his address, yes?"

The grocer heaved a deep sigh, as though they were interrupting him from doing something very important, though the shop was empty. "Ali! Alistair Berkeley, ge' o'er here, ye great lump!" The gangly blond boy jumped and dropped his mop. He bent to pick it up, but the grocer yelled, "_Now!_" and the boy left it where it lay and half ran up to the counter. "Watch the till," he said before turning back to Kingsley and Dawlish. "Com'on, 'aven't go' all day." He led them to the back of the store and through a small door marked,

**OFFICE****  
Employees Only**

The large man squeezed into the tiny room and navigated himself around the desk and chair over to a dusty filing cabinet in the corner. "'Ere we are. Liam Jameson, Number 2 Jersey Street." He handed the form to Kingsley to look for himself.

"Jersey Street. Is that far from here?"

The man shrugged. "Four, five blocks mayhaps. Down toward the London Rail, thata way."

Kingsley looked back down at the paper again, perusing for any other useful information. His eyes paused on the birthdate and he frowned. He did the quick mental math. "According to this, he should be nearly seventeen."

"Tha's right."

"Our information is that he's only fourteen."

The man was silent for a moment before saying matter-of-factly, "See tha' a lot wit' street kids."

Kingsley did not like where this was going. He exchanged a look with Dawlish. "Street kids?"

"Aye. When they be young i's easier ter beg or steal, but as they git older, profits go down. Cannit get a job by law less you be sixteen, so once they git ol' enough ter start te look the part, they lie 'bout their age."

"Did you ever suspect Liam might be younger than he said he was?"

"Sure sure. Well, when firs' 'e came 'ere las' year, 'e looked round abou' twelve. Small, see?"

"But you gave him the job anyway."

"Well wot would you 'ave me do? Turn 'im back te the streets? Liam's no' the type te go ter no orphanage or summat if 'e could avoid it. 'E'd fight tooth an' nail to stay out o' one o' those places. Might as well see te it that 'e's got enough to live on. Long as 'e can do the work, wot's it ter me if 'e's young?"

Kingsley did not answer. Mentally, he was already down in Jersey Street. He handed the paper back and said, "Thank you very much for your help Mr…?"

"Bernards. Jack Bernards."

"Thank you Mr. Bernards. We really must be going."

"'Ey, now. You no' gonna tell me wot this were all abou'?"

"I'm afraid it is a private matter, Mr. Bernards. Now, if you don't mind. Good day."

Kingsley and Dawlish extracted themselves from the tiny shop and headed east toward Jersey Street, anticipation rising.

Jersey Street proved to be less a street and more a kind of alley. It was all of a half a block long and ended in a dead end. The square brick buildings lining the street were dilapidated, security bars covered the windows on the lower levels, a single street light with a broken bulb stood lonely on the sidewalk. Kingsley stood outside Number 2 staring at the gloomy flat, and tried to imagine Harry living there. He couldn't see it. But then, he realised, when he pictured Harry, he pictured a happy smiling baby in the arms of a happy smiling mother. Circumstances had changed. Harry would be different now. He tried to remind himself of this, tried to think how Harry was going to react to them, but his imagination was coming up blank.

He was suddenly filled with trepidation. They had not rehearsed this. What were they to do if Harry refused to come with them? No, that was silly. They could offer him a much better life than this one. A life in a world where he belonged. The arrangement was entirely to everyone's advantage. And yet, still he stood unmoving in front of the door, staring.

Dawlish lost patience. He pushed passed Kingsley and, before he could stop him, rapped on the door.

* * *

**The boy crossed** over to the kitchen, towelling his hair dry. He reached down and pulled the refrigerator open. He knew it would be empty before he even checked. He never knew why he did that. Some inane hope that there would be something appealing sitting there that he had forgotten about. But he didn't forget food; he was always appreciative of every bite that made it to his stomach.

His salary at the grocer's was enough to pay for his rent and bills…well, most of his bills…but such luxuries as food and clothing he bought when he could afford them. That was really why he had searched for work in a grocery store: if there was one place he could really use an employee discount it was there. Tomorrow was pay day; he could make it till then. He'd survived longer without.

As a child he had pinched food when he'd needed to, but he hated doing it. His pride wouldn't let him go back to that life. He had worked hard the past year so he wouldn't have to. He had this apartment to show for his efforts. It really wasn't much, but he was proud of it. It was a constant reminder of how far he'd come.

He turned away and kicked the door of the fridge closed with his foot. Crossing over to the sofa bed in the corner, he grabbed a book off of the table and curled up. It was his day off, he should enjoy it. He opened the book and prepared to lose himself in someone else's problems, the best way he knew to forget his own.

This time, however, it seemed his problems were to be too insistent to be so easily forgotten, for, just as he had settled himself with his warmest blanket and a book on his lap, a knock came on the door. The boy didn't move immediately, he merely stared at the door for a moment, speculating on who it might be. He was not one to have visitors. A second rap on the door. Slowly he moved himself, balancing his book purposefully on the armrest, he walked to the door.

Turning the deadbolt, he cautiously opened the door just far enough that he wouldn't seem rude, leaving his foot to block it from being forced opened. Outside stood two men. The first was a burly man with short wiry hair. And behind him stood a man whom the boy recognised all too well: a tall black man with a bald head and earring, the man from the park the day before.

Immediately ever muscle in the boy's body stiffened. His hand rested on the door, ready to slam it shut if necessary. What could he possibly want with him? He took a deep breath and said, struggling to keep his voice calm, "Can I help you?"

"Yes. I believe you can. We're looking for Harry Potter."

* * *

**A/N:** As always, many thanks for all the Reviews and Favourites and such. I love you all…and would love you all the more if you review again! And just to let you know, if you have any question, I will answer them in private messages or here if it's something I feel everyone would benefit from having explained.


	5. 4 Bringing Him In

**Chapter 4  
Bringing Him In  
**

"**We're looking** for Harry Potter."

Every muscle in his body seemed to contract at once. Of the many possibilities that had run through his mind, this had not been one of them. Harry Potter. He could hardly remember the last time he had heard that name. He didn't want to remember it. That was a different time, a different person, a different life.

But right now, the boy had to remember it. The only people he knew who could be looking for him under that name were…them. Uncle Vernon always said he'd come after him if ever he were to run away. But he wouldn't go back there. He'd gotten out, nearly four years ago now, and after having tasted independence, freedom, there was no way anyone could make him return to that life. He would fight tooth and nail. He would use you-know-what if he had to. But first, he would try a less drastic approach.

He schooled his features. He was very good at this; he'd had years of practice. "I'm sorry. You seem to have made a mistake. There is no one by that name living here." He made to close the door, praying to God the men would give up and leave him alone.

They didn't. _God must hate me._ The brawny man with the wiry hair shot out a hand to block the door with a loud _smack_. "That's not going to work with us, son. We know who you are. You're going to need to come with us."

So much for less drastic. For half a moment, the boy stood stock-still. Panic was clouding the boy's mind and, as with all such instances in his life, instinct began to take over. Normally he fought against this, fought for control, for whenever instinct took command, you-know-what was not long to follow. But this time, he let it come. He welcomed it. The tall black man had already seen what he could do in the park the day before. He'd seen that he was a freak. So what was the point of hiding it now? None whatsoever.

And so, it was with all his might that the boy yanked the door open suddenly, catching the man off balance. The man threw out his other hand to catch himself on the door-jamb just as the boy slammed the door shut with every bit of the strength he could muster. He heard a sickening cracking sound and muffled cursing from the other side of the door, but the boy did not stop.

He made his way purposefully over to the kitchen window. Reaching it, he raised a hand to the level of his eyes, flicked his fingers to the side and immediately, with the screeching sound of grating metal, the security bars on the windows bent themselves to the side in response. Another flick of the wrist, this time as though wafting something away from him, and the glass vanished from the window.

His mind was now filled with the kind of elegant clarity he only felt when he was doing magic. A purposeful, complete, and utter conviction. The boy had never understood how something everyone had always told him was wrong, could feel so right. As if every muscle was designed to do just this. He seemed hyperaware of his surroundings. Without looking, he knew the two men had forced the door back open and the black man was untangling himself from his companion who was crouched outside cursing violently at his crumpled fingers. The black man was shouting at the boy, trying to tell him something, but the boy was beyond listening.

Without thought, he had hoisted himself fluidly through the window and dropped to the alley below, landing in a crouch. He glanced back up to see the man had ran to the window and was now attempting to follow him out it, but he was not as lithe as the boy. It would buy him a head start.

He began to run. He knew these streets. They had been his home for coming on four years. He knew their twists and bends and where to go if he wanted to lose himself in a crowd, where to go if he wanted to hide in a dark crevice where no one would find him. And so he ran, dodging around trashcans in the narrow corridor.

He could hear the man behind him lumbering to catch up, but the boy was faster, more nimble. He was going to win this race. He was going to get away. Rule number three: don't get caught. Today would not be the day he broke it. He was almost there.

But just as he reached the mouth of the alley, opening up onto a busy London street, he heard a sharp CRACK, and before him stood the burly man, still nursing his broken fingers. The boy skidded to a stop, the collected calm of his mind shattered. He had _teleported_. They were like him!_ Freaks_.

The man raised a short wooden stick and pointed in at the boy. He had absolutely no idea what the man was trying to do to him, but the boy did not like the angry glint in his eye. Without thinking, he raised his arm as though to block a blow before pushing it away from himself forcefully. The man went flying and landed in an unceremonious heap on the cobblestone pavement.

The boy turned to head the other direction, but it seemed the other man had caught up with them. He felt the man's hands gripping his shoulders and the boy clawed and scratched with all his might until he broke free. He tried to run again but, as he looked up, his eyes met with those of the burly man. He was standing again, leaning against the brick building face, that stick pointed directly at the boy's heart and, before he could react, the boy heard the man scream, "STUPIFY!" A jet of red light shot out of the stick and hit the boy square on the chest. He didn't have time to think. The world was going black. He wavered and fell back. He felt strong arms wrap around him from behind and lower him gently to the ground before he knew no more.

* * *

**Kingsley remained **there for a moment, cradling the unconscious form of his dead friends' son. Without thinking, he brushed the hair off his forehead and traced the lightning scar concealed beneath. This was not how things were supposed to go; bloody hell, Harry was never going to trust them now. Dawlish had re-pocketed his wand and gone back to cursing over his broken hand. Kingsley had half a mind to break his other one.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he said in a deadly soft voice, looking up at Dawlish with a dangerously blank face.

"What do you mean, 'what was_ I_thinking?' What did you want me to do?"

"How about _anything _but what you did?"

Dawlish was looking at Kingsley with a mixture of anger and confusion, still cradling his right hand. "Care to enlighten me on what exactly I did that was so wrong?" he spat.

"Where should I start? The 'You're going to need to come with us' part? Or the part where you _hexed_ _the Boy Who Lived?_"

"HOW ABOUT THE PART WHERE HE BROKE MY FINGERS IN A DOOR-JAMB?"

"_After _you scared him half to death!"

He heard a clattering above their heads and looked up to see an elderly Muggle woman had opened a window on the floor above and was squinting down at them through enormous spectacles. The head retracted back into the building the minute she noticed she had been spotted.

Kingsley sighed. "Forget it. We should get out of here before someone calls the police after all that ruckus."

He looked back down at Harry. A soft snow had begun to fall, the flakes catching in the boy's hair standing out in stark contrast to the blackness. Abruptly, Kingsley realized the boy wasn't wearing a jacket. He slipped off his cloak and wrapped it around Harry, before preparing to hoist him into his arms.

This seemed to be the last straw for Dawlish. He snorted, pushed off the wall, and said scathingly, "You know what? You can get the poor innocent little baby back to the Ministry yourself. I'm going to St. Mungo's to get my hand fixed. I'll see you at work, assuming it ever regains normal function." And before Kingsley could argue, he Disapparated with a crack.

_Well, that's just great. Leave me to clean up your mess._ Kingsley heaved Harry higher into his arms, made sure he had a secure grip on the boy and, after checking that the Muggle woman was not watching, Disapparated as well.

* * *

**Fudge was** having one of his rants. Kingsley was barely listening. Upon Apparating back to the Ministry, Kingsley had deposited an unconscious Harry Potter in an interrogation room and had called for Fudge and Scrimgeour. Apparently things had not gone quite as well as Fudge would have liked, as he was now cursing Dawlish and his recklessness. _Well that makes two of us_.

Kingsley had to acknowledge it wasn't entirely Dawlish's fault. They should have established a proper course of action before confronting Harry, and if Dawlish hadn't stunned Harry, they may never have managed to bring the boy back here. And that broken hand _had_ looked pretty painful. But then again, if Dawlish hadn't charged in there so unthinkingly, Harry may not have run in the first place and Dawlish's hand would still be intact. And now Kingsley doubted Harry would trust any of them again. Yes, it was much more satisfying to blame Dawlish.

Fudge was just starting to bleat about how Dawlish had not even had the guts to come back to the Ministry and own up to it all himself when Kingsley decided to stop him.

"Minister. Don't you think we should wake him?" He nodded his head toward Harry slumped on the table on the other side of the magical wall. The interrogation room was bewitched; from the outside, the room looked merely as though it were a continuation of the one they were in from which a spectator could watch. A table with a few chairs sat lonely at the end of the long room. From the inside, however, this viewing area was invisible. The room felt small and cramped, no windows or doors adorning the walls. The only way in or out was to walk through the magical wall, and the only way to do that was if someone on the outside allowed you to do so with a tap of the wand.

And it was impossible to do magic within the room. Kingsley hated to treat the boy as though he were a prisoner, but he had to acknowledge this fact made the room the ideal place to hold him until things were sorted out. From the two times he had seen Harry in action, Kingsley knew the boy was hardly a novice when it came to magic, and he was not fond of the idea of that magic being directed at him.

"Yes. Yes, I suppose you had better," Fudge blundered, removing his bolder hat and wiping at his receding hair line with a handkerchief. "You two can talk to him. Find out all you can; I'm going to need to set up a press conference over this, so it is imperative that I be informed on every detail that has happened since he disappeared."

Scrimgeour nodded mutely and turned toward the enchanted interrogation room. Kingsley, however, held back. "Sir. As I mentioned before, would it not be appropriate now to have Dumbledore informed? He would want to be here for this."

"No!" said Fudge a little too forcefully. Kingsley's eyes narrowed. He had a bad feeling about the way Fudge was approaching this. "No," said Fudge again, this time softer and almost placid. "There's no need to disturb Dumbledore yet. Not until we have all the facts."

Fudge turned away from Kingsley to stare through the enchanted wall at Harry, still lying slumped on the table. Kingsley didn't like this. Not at all. Very slowly, Kingsley covertly removed his wand from the pocket of his robe, all the while, his eyes on Fudge. With his wand behind his back, hidden by the folds of his robe, Kingsley muttered an incantation. Something silver shot out of his wand and disappeared out the door behind him leading out to the Auror headquarters and the rest of the Ministry.

Kingsley glanced furtively behind him to check that no one saw him, and moved to join Scrimgeour in the interrogation room. He passed Fudge who was standing just outside the margins of the interrogation room. The minister seemed lost in thought, eyes fixed on Harry and full of a hunger that made Kingsley unspeakably nervous.

* * *

**Six hundred **kilometres away, by a remote mountain lake in northern Scotland, a man sat at his desk in a vast castle. He was an old man, his long hair and beard white as snow and flowing past his waist, but the way he held himself, the twinkle in his light blue eyes belied his age. He exuded an energy that most would not have believed possible after forty-five years as the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Albus Dumbledore sat at his desk reading his correspondence through half-moon spectacles. Whatever he was reading troubled him. The Death Eaters had been more active at late. Something was coming, and he didn't know that anything would be able to stop it. It troubled him, but he didn't show it.

Dumbledore removed his spectacles and set them on the desk atop the letter. He leaned back in his chair, elbows on the armrests, finger tips together, thinking. Always thinking. After a few moments like this, he sighed and reached for his glasses to resume his reading, but it was at that moment that he was interrupted.

A silver ghostly lynx had abruptly appeared before him. It opened its mouth and in a voice Dumbledore recognized well said, "You had best get in here. We've found Harry Potter. Fudge doesn't want you contacted." And with that, it was gone as though wafted away by a breeze.

Dumbledore did not blink. His face remained blank. But for what felt like an eternity, he sat there, staring at the point where the lynx had disappeared, his head cocked slightly to the side, one eyebrow ever-so-slightly more arched. If one could have seen inside his head, he would have seen the mad mixture of chaos, joy, trepidation, and most frighteningly, hope.

But on the outside, none of this showed. He just sat and stared at the center of the rug before his desk, motionless, thinking. Always thinking. When he finally stood, it was a sudden and fluid movement. Purposeful and decisive in a way that seemed to contradict the previous minutes of immobility.

He made his way resolutely around his desk. He paused in passing a golden perch in the corner of the room and sneaked out a long-fingered hand to stroke the head of a large, beautiful, red-plumaged bird.

"There may still be a chance, Fawkes. There may still be a chance," he said softly. And with that, he turned from the bird, marched over to the fire, and disappeared in a whoosh of green flame.

* * *

**A/N: **Sorry it took me a while to update. Midterm Exams + Influenza = Author Want Sleep = Slow Updates. On the other hand Lots of Reviews + Weekend = Happy Author = Fast Updates.

Thanks to all my reviewers! And to _FoxInTheShadow_, because I couldn't respond to you directly, thank you! I was worried that was over the top. Either that or no one would get it… You set my mind at ease.

Oh, and to all you Remus fans out there who are wondering where he went, next chapter, I promise.


	6. 5 Interrogation or Inquiry

**Chapter 5  
Interrogation or Inquiry  
**

**The air being **sucked into his lungs felt stuffy and warm. There was a crick in his neck. He tried to straighten it out and found that his forehead seemed to be resting on something hard and smooth. He groaned. Where was he? He tried to remember what had happened that day, but his brain felt like jelly. He pealed his eyes open a crack. The light was blindingly bright. He squeezed them shut again, his face scrunched up and buried in his shoulder. His throat felt as though it was filled with glue, his mouth too dry to swallow.

"Here, drink this," said a gentle voice to his left.

The boy jumped a foot in the air, letting out a great gasp. He sat up so suddenly, the glass that was being offered him went flying across the room and shattered against the wall. Before he could register anything more, his legs had stumbled backward, knocking over the chair he had been sitting in, and carrying him to the far end of the room until he had collapsed against the wall. Beside him, the shards of shattered glass where glittering angrily in the brilliant light while what seemed to be water was dripping down the wall to pool on the floor.

He stood there, hyperventilating as he clutched to the wall for support. His eyes were darting around the room, focusing on everything for half a second before flying on. There were two men in the room with him; the first, he did not recognise. He was a large man, dull yellow hair curling to his shoulders giving him the look of a lion. Wire-rimmed spectacles rested on a sharply-angled, no-nonsense sort of face. He stood in the far corner, arms crossed, looking at the boy, quite devoid of emotion.

The other man, the boy recognised as the tall black man from that morning. Or had it been just that morning? How long had he been here? And where _was _'here?' The harsh light of the room was reflecting off the man's bald pate and a single gold loop in one ear. The man still knelt frozen next to the table, his hand outstretched where he had been holding out the glass. His eyes were wide and full of concern as he watched the boy taking in his surroundings in panic.

"It's all right," he said in a deep calming voice. "It's all right, Harry. We're not going to hurt you." Any good his voice did in relaxing the boy was quickly undone by the use of _that _name. If anything, it made him all the more discomfited.

His eyes flitted around the room in search for an escape, and what he saw only served to increase his horror still further. They were in a small square room, no more than three or four metres wide. The room's only furnishings were the table and three straight-backed wooden chairs. The walls were a sickly cream color, too clean and unadorned, entirely unbroken. Unbroken by windows or even doors. The boy couldn't even find a light source; the blinding illumination seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

The boy was well beyond panic by this point, but oddly, he didn't feel the you-know-what coming. He vaguely tried to search for it, but it felt empty. His brain was too clouded to consider the implications of this. He stared around the room and all he could think of was how the walls seemed to close in around him. All he could see was his cupboard. The lights in the room were blazing, but he was sitting alone in the dark. He wouldn't go back. He _couldn't _go back.

Without deciding to do so, the boy found himself sliding down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, his knees drawn to his chest, eyes now staring straight ahead, no longer seeing, face frozen in a blank wide-eyed look, arms wrapped around himself, and fingernails digging into his arms until they bled.

A voice was floating to him from across the void. "Harry? Harry, please. You need to calm yourself. It's all right. Everything is going to be okay. We're here to help you, but you need to calm down." The boy felt a hand rest on his shoulder and he jerked away from it.

"Don't touch me!" The words had forced themselves from his mouth in a splutter, and the hand quickly withdrew. But it had served to wake the boy up a bit. With a few open-mouthed gasps for air, he looked up at the man crouched next to him in time to see him exchange a glance with the lion-man across the room. The second nodded, turned away, and strode through the very solid-looking wall on the other side of the room.

The boy stared. He felt dizzy. This all had to be some kind of mad fever dream. He was only half aware of the other man kneeling beside him and muttering comforting words. But half a moment later the lion-man had returned through the same wall, holding a goblet that seemed to be steaming. He handed the goblet to the black man.

"Harry? This is a calming draught. I want you to drink it. It will make you feel better, I promise."

The boy didn't move, didn't respond. He merely stared straight ahead, expressionless. The man sighed, reached over and brought the cup to the boy's lips. Before the boy even realised what he was doing, the man had tipped the contents of the goblet into his mouth. The boy struggled and spluttered, trying to pull away, but he felt something of a similar taste and texture to warm milk sliding down his throat.

The effect was instantaneous. Abruptly, all will to resist the effects were wiped away, and he felt every muscle in his body relax. It felt good. A corner of his mind rebelled against this feeling, but most of him seemed quite content to simply sit there.

Through the haze, the boy felt an arm wrap itself under his arm pits and lift him back into the chair at the table. He sat there swaying slightly as though drunk. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking in a deep breath through his nose. When he opened them again, he found that the two men had seated themselves opposite him at the table.

"Feeling better?" asked Earring.

The boy thought about this for a moment. The panic was certainly gone. But in its absence, he found he could identify other emotions that had been previously overwhelmed. Anger, puzzlement, hate.

When the boy didn't reply, the man continued. "I know you must be feeling very confused right now. But please trust me, Harry, when I say that we mean you no harm."

The boy winced. There was that name again. But he stayed silent. Silence was the one defence he still had. He kept his face blank, determined to give away nothing, and stared at a point on the table between them. _I will not go back._

"You have to understand, we've been looking for you for a long time. We've been very worried about you."

Silence.

The man glanced at his companion again, looking rather uncomfortable with the lack of response.

"Harry, please—"

"STOP CALLING ME THAT!" The words had burst through the boy's clenched jaw before he'd even realised it. Through the haze of that drink they had forced down his throat, the boy felt the anger rising. He was breathing hard, glaring at the men opposite him, both of whom were looking shocked at his outburst. He tried to calm himself, calling on all of his early training to school his face.

He took a deep breath and said in a more modulated tone, "As I told you before, you've made a mistake. My name is Liam Jameson. I am not, nor do I know anyone by the name of Harry Potter. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to go home."

"I'm afraid it is not as simple as that," the lion-like man spoke up for the first time. His voice was like his face: hard and angular and devoid of emotion. "You see, not only have you conducted under-aged magic in the presence of Muggles, but you are a minor in need of a guardian. We cannot simply leave a fourteen year-old to his own devices."

Harry considered this little speech before deciding they were all mental. "I've told you before; you've got the wrong man. I don't know what the _hell_ you're talking about with magic and Muddles or whatever, but my name is Liam Jameson, I am _sixteen_ years old. My parents were Phillip and Eleanor Jameson. I grew up in Portsmouth with my parents until their death last year, at which point I moved to London. _I can't help you._I don't know what you did to get me here, but you have no right to keep me!"

Lion-Man regarded the boy seriously. "So if we were to go to Portsmouth then, we'd find a record of you and your family, would we?"

This made the boy uncomfortable, but he didn't show it. He had rehearsed this story a million times in the past four years and he could have recited it in his sleep. Let them try to follow a non-existent lead in Portsmouth and waste their time. Meanwhile, it might at least give him a chance to get away. "That's right," he bluffed confidently.

Lion-Man narrowed his eyes at him. The boy glared right back.

Earring looked between them, cleared his throat uncomfortably and said, "I think perhaps we got off to a bad start."

"You think?" the boy muttered sarcastically, crossing his arms across his chest, eyes still locked with the other.

Earring chose to ignore him. "My name is Kingsley Shacklebolt and this is Rufus Scrimgeour. We are Aurors with the Ministry of Magic. Do you know what that means?"

The boy didn't respond. It sounded like a whole lot of tosh. These people were mental, there was nothing else to it.

"We're like…police men," he continued. "But for the magical world."

Still no response.

"You do know about the magical world? Your aunt and uncle should have explained that to you, yes?"

The boy finally broke eye contact with Lion-Man to lock eyes with the one who called himself Shacklebolt. "I don't. Have. An aunt. Or uncle." He said it, enunciating every word very clearly. Maybe that would make them actually listen to him. Maybe they didn't speak English. Maybe they were deaf. Maybe they were daft. "How many times do I have to tell you? You've got the wrong person. My name is Liam Jameson. I'm sixteen years old. My parents were Phillip and Eleanor Jameson—"

"We heard it the first time, thank you," the man called Scrimgeour interrupted. Daft, then, the boy decided.

They boy let out a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a scream of frustration, and dropped his head into his hands, grinding his teeth.

"Please. We're just trying to help you. We just need to figure out what's happened to you over all of these years. I really can't even begin to imagine what you've been through, but we want to help. But you have to let us." Shacklebolt spoke in a soothing manner. His voice and gentle demeanour was enough to make the boy feel slightly guilty for lying so blatantly. But his life had depended on lying. It had kept him alive on many occasions. So he felt slightly guilty, but not guilty enough to stop him from snapping when Shacklebolt continued with the words, "Please, Harry—"

And that was it.

* * *

**Fudge was **fuming. This was not the way it was supposed to go. The boy was supposed to be relieved, happy to be reentering the world in which he belongs. He was supposed to be grateful to Fudge. Thank him. Support him publically. The ridiculous boy. He was going to ruin everything.

Scrimgeour and Shacklebolt were fast making their escape from a rampaging teenager. Fudge sighed and tapped his wand on the magical wall to let the two Aurors back through. Just after Shacklebolt stepped crossed through the wall, there was a crash as a chair was thrown in their direction with such force that it shattered against the now solid wall. Hoping no one had noticed him flinch when the chair had come zooming at his head, Fudge watched as one of the legs ricocheted off and rolled away across the interrogation room. Potter, breathing hard from anger and exertion, was pacing and glaring at the wall almost as though he could see them. Fudge groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to protect himself against the onslaught of an approaching migraine. He gritted his teeth and listened as Scrimgeour and Shacklebolt caught their breath. None of them spoke. What was there to say?

When Fudge finally opened his eyes, Potter had given up his glaring at nothing and had dropped back down to his seat. He was sitting, elbows resting on the table, head in his hands. Scrimgeour was studying him with an annoyed look. Shacklebolt was looking at the boy with a shocked and, unless Fudge was much mistaken, apologetic look.

It was Shacklebolt who finally broke the silence. "What do we do now?"

Fudge turned to glare at him. "We do not give up so easily."

"Of course not, sir," Shacklebolt said reassuringly. "I merely meant to ask, how should we approach him next? Clearly we need a new technique."

"Perhaps we should have someone else talk to him," said Scrimgeour. "Shacklebolt is the one who brought him here. He might be less than keen to speak while he's about." Shacklebolt did not look pleased by this comment, but he didn't argue. It _was_a valid point.

"Who did you have in mind?" asked Fudge.

"I'm not sure…Someone who won't make the boy feel as though he is under arrest. Someone he'll actually listen to long enough for the situation to be explained…"

"Perhaps I might be permitted," said a voice from the door behind them. Fudge and the others spun around.

"Dumbledore!" exclaimed Fudge in surprised annoyance. Well wasn't this just perfect. Fudge was about ready to put his fist into something. Or someone. Nevertheless, he moderated his tone. "I wasn't expecting you, Dumbledore. What brings you to the Ministry?"

"Oh, I had some spare time, and thought you might like to discuss the situation with the Wizengamot you wrote to me about. When I found your office empty, however, I asked about and was informed you were on the second floor, a statement accompanied by quite remarkable rumours. Rumours I now see are true," he added, stepping forward into the room to get a better view of Harry. Dumbledore said no more for a moment, merely stared at the boy at the end of the room with a sad sort of look Fudge could not interpret.

Fudge was annoyed. Dumbledore was not supposed to be involved in this. At least not until _he_deemed it appropriate. It wasn't fair; Dumbledore always ended up with the credit for everything that ever went right in his administration, while everything that went wrong was attributed to Fudge. Then again, this particular situation didn't seem to be going so right, in the end. Maybe he should just hand it over to Dumbledore and let him take the fall when the boy failed to adjust. Then again…

"And who, may I ask, directed you to this interrogation room?" asked Fudge, annoyance not quite as well disguised as he would have liked. He had, after all, given strict instructions that they were not to be disturbed.

"Oh, young Williamson. We had a delightful conversation about an instance in his fourth year in which he was sent to my office after having set the greenhouse on fire."

Fudge glanced back at the door to see Williamson standing outside looking like a reprimanded schoolboy, unsure whether to be more nervous of Fudge or of Dumbledore. Fudge grumbled under his breath. He would deal with him later.

Dumbledore's eyes were fixed on Potter, studying every inch of him that was visible. "Has he shown signs of magic? Is that why you are holding him in here?"

"'Signs of magic' would…er…be putting it rather lightly," replied Kingsley. Dumbledore turned to him, waiting for him to continue. Kingsley cleared his throat and began to list, "I saw him Apparate, do a drying spell, a few different forms of kinetic spells, all without a wand, of course. Everything seemed very intentional and thought out. And…er…" he broke off, glancing at the boy.

"Yes?" asked Dumbledore.

"Well, it's just that…Dawlish is in hospital," he finally spilt out rather hurriedly. "Nothing serious, but the boy did knock him around a bit."

"I see," said Dumbledore, turning back to stare at the boy. Fudge was surprised to see Dumbledore seemed rather pleased, smug even. "Quite impressive for one his age who has had no formal education in the matter," he said more to himself than to anyone else. "Have you found anything out about where he has been?"

"Not much. He has been very…resistant," said Fudge bitterly. "Shacklebolt found him living in a small flat in Muggle London. He's been working in a grocery."

"I see," said Dumbledore, eyes still on Potter. "Yes, I see," he repeated to himself. Dumbledore, took a deep breath, stood up straighter and turned to face Fudge. "Now, if it is alright with you, Cornelius, I should very much like a chat with our Mr Potter here." And without even waiting for a response, Dumbledore strode through the magical wall, robes billowing purposefully.

And Fudge was left spluttering behind him. _The _nerve _of the man!_

* * *

**Dumbledore stood** for a moment, just inside the interrogation room, drinking in the sight of the boy. He was overjoyed to see him alive, but at the same time, he looked quite miserable sitting there, his head in his hands, shoulders hunched over the table. What had he done to this child? Dumbledore let out a sigh. The boy did not look up, but Dumbledore could see all the muscles in is body tense as the sound alerted him to another's presence.

Dumbledore traversed the small room in two steps, pulled out the only other chair that was still intact, and sat down opposite to Harry, his back to the spectators in the next room. He eyed the broken chair leg that was lying on the ground on the far side of the room, wondering vaguely what had happened before turning his attention to the boy.

"Hello, Harry. My name is Albus Dumbledore. I am the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

The boy let out a low growl of frustration before Dumbledore had even finished, but still he did not lift his head. His voice was muffled by the table when he spoke. "You people can call me that all you like, but it's not going to change the fact that I'm _not_who you think I am. My name is Liam Jameson, I am sixteen years old. My parents were Phillip and Eleanor Jameson. I grew up in Portsmouth with my parents until their death last year. I moved to London where I now work as a grocer's assistant."

There was a pause as Dumbledore considered this. "It seems you have rehearsed this story rather well." Harry's head jerked up and he glared at Dumbledore with all his might. Dumbledore was taken aback, not only by the force of the glare but also at getting his first good look at the boy's face. He looked so much like James, it was frightening. All but the lightning shaped scar he had seen only once before. The scar and the eyes. Even narrowed in what he could only interpret as intense dislike, Dumbledore could see Lily looking out at him through those eyes. It was as though Lily was reprimanding him from beyond the grave for his neglect of her son.

"It is not a story. My life is not for your entertainment," the boy ground out through clenched teeth. "Why is it that everyone is so sure that I am this Harry, whoever the poor sod is?"

"My dear boy, I'm afraid there really is no mistaking you. If I knew nothing else about you, that scar would be enough. Couple in your age and appearance, not to mention the magnitude of the magic you have been observed using…We are quite certain in our convictions."

"Coincidence," he spat back, a hand subconsciously moving up to flatten his fringe over the scar on his forehead. He continued to clench his teeth and glare.

Dumbledore was silent again for a moment, studying the boy. "It was an interesting choice of surname. Jameson. James's son. It's understandable, of course. I suppose it must have been very hard giving up your name; the one thing you still had of your parents. Something they gave you and which was entirely yours. To take your father's first name for your last…I suppose that would give you some comfort. Help you to not feel as though it was a dishonour to their memory."

"Funny thing about given names," the boy snarled, "they're _given_, not chosen. And as I told you before, my father's name was _Phillip_."

Dumbledore merely smiled, an action which only seemed to infuriate the boy further.

"I want you to understand, my dear boy, that we are trying to help you, here."

"Who ever said I needed help? I was doing just fine before you lot came and kidnapped me for no apparent reason!"

"Just fine? On your own in the middle of London, without anyone there to look out for you?"

"I'm good at being alone. I've had a long time to practice."

"You mean since your parents death? My condolences, but I must say, one year does not seem like such a very long time for you to have recovered from such a loss, gotten used to the conditions you've been living in…"

"Four years. I've lived on my own there for _four_years, not one," countered the boy, almost proudly.

Dumbledore couldn't help but feel a little triumphant at this. He raised an eyebrow, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips.

Abruptly the boy seemed to realise what he had just said. He had just admitted to having been on his own in London for the same period of time as Harry Potter. He looked horrified with himself for half a moment, before turning the fury toward Dumbledore. "I don't know what you think you're playing at, but I am not who you think I am! I refuse to answer your questions," he half shouted.

"I'm merely trying to establish, how a teenaged magical boy came to be living alone in squalor in the centre of Muggle London," Dumbledore replied quite calmly.

"And what business is it of yours?" The chair legs screeched against the floor as the boy stood up, hovering over the table.

Dumbledore remained seated, looking up at the boy quite unfazed. "I was the executor of your parents will. Since their death, therefore, you were and are my responsibility, Harry."

"My name. Is not. Harry!" This statement was punctuated by the boy making a slashing movement with his right arm. Nothing happened. The boy looked down at his hand, the resentment on his face temporarily overpowered by confusion.

"You can't perform magic in this room, I'm afraid." Dumbledore looked the boy up and down as he stood there, staring at his own hand, seemingly lost in thought. Harry plopped back down into his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, staring at the table top frowning. Seemingly subconsciously he was rubbing the fingers and thumb of his right hand together.

"I'm curious," said Dumbledore after a minute's silence. "What was it you had intended to do to me just now?" The boy glanced up with a glare before going back to his contemplation of the table top. "You are not in trouble, dear boy, I merely wondered because you seem to have a remarkable knowledge of magic for one with no education in the matter. I look forward to seeing how you do at school, once this is all sorted out."

The boy's head jerked up and he stared at Dumbledore wide-eyed. "You can't keep me here. You have no right. I haven't done anything wrong."

"Please let me explain the situation." He paused, waiting for Harry to get any arguments out, but the boy seemed to have lost all energy for fighting. "Quite ignoring who you are and your history in the magical world," the boy frowned at this, but said nothing so Dumbledore continued. "Quite ignoring this, the simple fact remains that you are a magical child who is without a guardian capable of teaching you the magic you need to know. I need you to understand how dangerous it is, an under-aged wizard performing magic without any education or supervision. You could make a mistake, hurt yourself or someone else, and there would be no one there to undo it. You see?" No response. "It is due to this danger that it is necessary that you come back to Hogwarts with me. There you can be around other children like you, and have access to the teachers and books you need in order to learn magic in a comprehensive manner."

The boy looked up at the Headmaster, eyes unreadable. Abruptly, he stood, walked purposefully around the table until he reached the magical wall leading back to the rest of the Ministry. He put his palm out to touch the wall. When nothing happened, he pressed against it with all his might. Nothing. Abruptly his hand formed itself into a fist, and he banged it against the wall. The resultant _BOOM _echoed around the room. Dumbledore watched serenely from his seat, not commenting as Harry began to repeatedly bang on the wall, each punch seemingly more and more desperate.

"LET ME OUT!" Harry screamed at the top of his lungs to any unseen people on the other side of the wall. He enunciated his words with each bang of his fist. "LET. ME. OUT! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO KEEP ME HERE!" At this point, Dumbledore noticed a small smear of blood on the wall. Standing up, he traversed the few steps to the boy and caught his wrist as he pulled back for another punch. The boy jumped at the contact, attempted to wrench his arm out of the headmaster's grip, and snarled in a low voice, "Don't. Touch. Me."

Dumbledore kept a grip on his arm calmly. "You're hurting yourself," he told the boy evenly, leading him back to the table and gently pushing him into the chair he had just vacated. Kneeling before the chair, he examined the damage to the boy's knuckles. It was nothing serious, but Dumbledore felt the shallow scrapes to the boy's hand as though the same were inflicted on his heart. He was wrought with guilt; if only they had looked harder, longer when Harry had gone missing. After a year they had come to the conclusion that the boy had been killed by Death Eaters and the search had been abandoned, but if he had just kept looking…

Dumbledore looked up into the startlingly green eyes wondering what he had condemned the child to. What had happened to him? Had he been kidnapped? Tortured? Had he escaped leading him to the change in identity, leading him to the life in which they had found him?

The boy seemed to have calmed down some. He was breathing hard through his nose, teeth clenched, glaring at Dumbledore. "I'm not going to some school for _freaks_." He said it with a terrible unruffled composure that contrasted his previous activity jarringly.

Dumbledore sighed and, releasing the boy's hand, straightened and drew up the other chair, this time on the same side of the table. Seating himself, he looked back at the boy. Harry was now staring at his hands as he wrung them together, brushing the scrapes on his knuckles absent-mindedly. His face was expressionless, but he no longer seemed to care that Dumbledore was in the room. Dumbledore thought vaguely that the boy's mood vacillations could give somebody whiplash.

For the next fifteen minutes Dumbledore spoke, asked questions, but the boy did not move from this position. Did not say another word. Finally admitting defeat, Dumbledore stood and walked to the magical wall, eyes meeting with where he knew Fudge would be standing. Just before leaving, he looked over his shoulder at Harry, still exactly where he had been left, still expressionless.

As Dumbledore passed through the wall, a single tear trickled down the old man's cheek.

On the other side of the wall, Dumbledore joined Fudge, Scrimgeour, and Kingsley staring at the boy, still sitting dejectedly, staring at his hands. Dumbledore glanced at his companions. Fudge looked torn between smugness and irritation. It did not take Dumbledore long to reason out the cause: Fudge was enjoying Dumbledore's failure at getting through to Harry, but irate at the boy's lack of receptiveness. He did not seem to notice the contradiction here. Not for the first time since receiving Kingsley's Patronus, Dumbledore's resolve to keep the politician's hands off of Harry strengthened. God knows that's the last thing the poor boy needs.

Scrimgeour's face was blank as it always was, and Kingsley looked slightly sick as he watched the boy, shame evident in his eyes. Kingsley's eyes slid to Dumbledore, expression unchanging and Dumbledore gave him the slightest of imperceptible nods of acknowledgement. It was comforting to know that while the Order of the Phoenix had mostly disbanded since the end of the war, there were still those willing to step up in a tight spot.

"Well, that was a complete waste of time," sneered Fudge.

"Oh, I don't know," replied Scrimgeour. "He at least revealed a discrepancy in his story. That he had been in London for longer than he originally admitted to."

"A small concession," scoffed Fudge.

"That's how all confessions start," said Scrimgeour knowledgeably. Fudge glared at him.

Fudge was quiet for a moment, thinking with a scowl on his face. "It doesn't matter," he finally declared. "If the boy doesn't want to be honest, it makes little difference. We have legal cause to relocate a minor living on his own, at least until he comes of age. And we know who he is. If it proves necessary, it shouldn't be difficult to convince the Wizengamot to allow us to turn to Veritaserum."

At that, Kingsley's head jerked away from the boy, his shocked gaze coming to rest on the minister. "Is that really necessary?"

"That depends on him," Fudge snapped back.

Dumbledore was silent, gazing at Fudge, lost in thought. The minister was expressing a level of determination Dumbledore had never previously viewed in him. When Harry had disappeared three and a half years ago, it had been Fudge who had taken the criticism of the press. They had insisted that if Fudge could not even protect the Boy Who Lived, how could he be expected to protect the country? The minister's approval ratings had dropped steadily since the incident, and it seemed Fudge was resolved to return to the status he enjoyed early in his term. And he was going to use Harry to get there.

"Perhaps," Dumbledore spoke up at length, "we should exhaust all other options before resorting to something so drastic." His voice was calm but authoritative.

Fudge bristled. "What else would you suggest?" he demanded. "Two of my most well-trained interrogators have spoken to him as well as you yourself. The boy is not cooperating!"

"Perhaps, Cornelius," Dumbledore began again, "you would do better with someone _not_trained in interrogation."

Fudge frowned, Scrimgeour looked thoughtful, and Kingsley looked appreciative.

"What are you on about, Dumbledore?" Fudge demanded angrily.

"If you treat a man like a prisoner," Dumbledore continued calmly, "he will respond like a prisoner." He looked over at the boy, still sitting unmoving at the interrogation table. "There's someone I'd like to introduce to our young Mr Potter. Someone I have reason to think he will respond quite differently to..."

* * *

**A/N:** I apologise; nearly three weeks since my last update. I am ashamed. I really did want to get it out sooner, but I have been stuck working in the lab overtime lately (but on the other hand, this is due to a promotion. Hooray, me!). Also, this was just a hard chapter to write. I'll be interested to see what people think, because frankly, I don't find it all that believable. Anyway, I especially wanted to get it out for _Offspring_, who has been an excellent reviewer and who has been in need of entertainment of late. Hope you're feeling better, hon.

Anyway, thanks for all the reviews last chapter, and keep at it! You have no idea how encouraging it is. I'm considering taking a short break from this story to work on my other one. Not really sure, but I just wanted to give you the heads up in the event that I don't update for a few weeks. On the other hand, if you would like something more cannon, you could all read my other story, _Knowing Where to Look_, instead, (hint hint). I have been sadly neglecting it, largely because this story gets a much more enthusiastic response than _Knowing-_(though, truth be told, I think the other is better written than this one, but to each his own). But it needs to be let out of the cupboard under the stairs on occasion too. Okay, sorry, this was a very rambling AN that said absolutely nothing, so I'm going shut up now. Hope you enjoy.

Cheers!

Baguette


	7. 6 What Once was Lost

**Chapter 6  
What Once Was Lost**

**Remus sighed **as he sank into the soft armchair by the fire in his private quarters. He mulled over the possibility of going home for the holiday, but he fast dismissed it. What was there waiting for him there? At least if he stayed at Hogwarts he would have the company of a few staff members and the remaining students for Christmas luncheon.

And so it was with this assessment that he settled himself down further into the cushions and closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the fire wash over him. A book sat closed on his lap, patiently waiting until he was ready for it, but until then, Remus was content to merely sit and let his mind go blank, revelling in the silence that accompanied the absence of hundreds of boisterous students.

The stillness lay on that strange cusp between peaceful and lonely. That grey area where the mind isn't sure whether it should be appreciative or depressed. But Remus did not mind loneliness the way most seemed to. He supposed he was used to it, having grown up as an outcast from a young age. It was his natural state; he could be surrounded by a throng of people and yet still be the loneliest man alive. There had been a time in his life when this curse had been lifted, a time when he had felt as though he belonged; for a few short years, everything had been right. But that had been snatched from him too and left him worse off than when he had started, pining for the loss of something he would never see again.

But he would not think of this now. Now he would bask in the peace and quiet. Focus on regaining his strength after the most recent full moon. He was grateful that the December full moon had been earlier in the month. The previous year it had fallen on Christmas; at least this year he would be well enough to enjoy the festivities, most in particular the heavenly food the house elves were sure to prepare. He sat in his chair, reminiscing about past Christmases.

He was not sure if his jumbled thoughts had actually drifted into real dreams by the time his mind was abruptly interrupted by a loud knock. His fogged brain struggled to devise a way to integrate the unexplained knock into the memory of a Christmas party his mother had thrown when he was eight years old, but it failed when another knock sounded around the room. Remus sat up and looked around confusedly. A third knock brought his attention to the door leading out to the rest of the castle.

Rubbing his eyes to clear them, he stumbled to his feet, the book on his lap falling to the floor where he promptly tripped over it. He steadied himself on the mantel before staggering to the door and opening it.

"So sorry to disturb you, my dear boy." Dumbledore's voice rang in Remus's fuzzy head. He wondered vaguely when Dumbledore would stop calling him a boy. At thirty four years of age, he felt a transition was overdue. "I know you must be catching up on some rest now the students are gone, and heaven knows you had a rough time three nights ago. And grading end of term exams right afterwards. You must be exhausted."

It took Remus a moment to realise Dumbledore had stopped talking and was clearly waiting for a reply. "Yes, I mean no. That is to say...won't you come in, Headmaster?"

"Thank you, yes," said Dumbledore, striding in and holding his hands out to be warmed by the fire.

"Do sit down. Can I get you a cup of tea?"

"I would appreciate some cocoa if you have it?" He said it as a question.

Remus glanced over at the rusty tin that held tea bags and the equally rusty tea kettle beside it. "Er, no. I'm afraid I don't."

"Never mind, my boy. Never mind. Now Remus, come and sit down beside me here. There is something most particular I must discuss with you, and I'm afraid time is a matter of some importance."

Remus eyed the headmaster warily. Through years of acquaintance, Remus had come to possess the ability to read Dumbledore better than some, and Remus could detect an unusual excitement in the old man's address. Whether that excitement was of the new-flavour-of-Sherbet-Lemons variety, or the someone-is-trying-to-destroy-the-world variety, Remus could not determine.

"Remus, I do not believe there is a particularly tactful way of putting this, so I think I'm just going to have to dive right in. It's about Harry."

Just as Remus had gotten the ignition running in his sleep-fogged brain, it stalled again. "Harry? Harry who?" It was a stupid question. There was only one Harry in the universe that Remus cared about. Only one Dumbledore would be talking to him about. Remus knew this, but his brain seemed to be trying to protect itself. Not letting him get his hopes up over something that could never be.

Dumbledore seemed to agree that it was a stupid question, seemed to know that Remus knew very well who he was talking about, because he did not bother to answer Remus's query. "Remus. We've found him. He's alive."

He paused here, undoubtedly trying to give Remus a chance to take this in and digest it. But how could he possibly digest this? So many questions were bubbling to the surface; he didn't know how to reply. He just sat there in shocked silence. A ringing was filling his ears, fog clouding his eyes. He couldn't think, couldn't move.

Dumbledore's voice was floating across the void toward him. "Kingsley Shacklebolt seems to have stumbled across him in Muggle London. He contacted me this morning to tell me that the Ministry had him in custody."

"I...don't understand," Remus finally managed to spit out quite unnecessarily.

Dumbledore regarded him with pity in his blue gaze. "I know this can't be easy for you to grasp. After all these years. Never knowing what happened. Here, let me catch you up on everything I know, which I must confess is not much."

Remus listened in a daze as Dumbledore recounted his meeting with the boy, as well as what he learned from the Ministry officials, both spoken and inferred.

"But, if he denies that he is indeed Harry, how can you be so sure it's him?"

Dumbledore smiled humourlessly. "I'm sure you will understand when you see him," was all he said.

"'When I see him,'" Remus repeated quietly. "When will that be," he asked, hopelessness in his voice. The Ministry was hardly about to let a werewolf near the newly re-found Boy Who Lived any time soon.

"Well, my dear boy, I was rather hoping you'd come with me to talk to him now. If you're up to it, that is."

_As if I would pass up the opportunity even if I weren't up to it_, Rumus thought, well aware that Dumbledore knew Remus would never be able to refuse. By way of an answer, Remus got to his feet and moved to the door. When he got there, he stared expectantly at Dumbledore. Dumbledore gave one of his patented twinkle-eyed smiles and moved to follow him.

As he stepped through the door that Remus held open for him, Dumbledore stopped and looked at his friend and colleague thoughtfully. "Remus, do you have any old photographs? Of Lily and James? And Harry as an infant?"

"Yes, I have a photo album on the bookshelf." Remus replied slowly. "Why?"

"I think, perhaps, you would do well to take it along. It may come in useful."

* * *

**Dumbledore strolled** through the Ministry in the direction of the Auror Office as though he were a new mother pushing a perambulator through the park. His calm and collected manner was starting to grate on Rumus's nerves. _Can't we hurry it up already,_ he growled internally. _Harry's here. In this building. He must be so scared and confused, sitting in some interrogation room, surrounded by strangers in a world he doesn't understand._

A growl too low to hear really did escape his chest as Dumbledore stopped to exchange pleasantries with a smiling wizened witch. _No one cares how her sister's rheumatism is, you old fool. Harry is waiting. He's all alone._When they started walking again, Dumbledore gave Remus a twinkling smile that said only too well that he knew exactly what Remus had been thinking.

When they finally reached the oak doors on the Auror Office, Dumbledore allowed Remus to enter first before following him in.

"This way," Dumbledore said, leading Remus past a row of cubicles all containing Aurors who were craning their necks to watch them curiously. They came to a series of doors along the far wall, and Dumbledore opened one and strode inside.

"_Him_, Dumbledore? You can't be serious!" The voice of Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, accosted Remus the moment he stepped inside the dimly lit room. Remus didn't even spare him a glance. His eyes were immediately drawn to the far end of the room where a table and chairs were set up under blindingly bight light. Where a teen-aged boy sat dejectedly, arms crossed on the table, chin resting on clenched fists.

And Remus felt his heart break.

Fudge was expressing a string of objections to Remus's presence, but Remus didn't bother to listen; it was nothing he hadn't heard before. His eyes were glued on Harry, drinking in the sight of him. He had thought he had prepared himself for this moment, but he could never have predicted the barrage of feelings threatening to drown him. Joy, sorrow, hope, gratitude, but mostly a bitter self-loathing. _All these years. All these years he was out there, God knows where, alone, and I did nothing. I abandoned the search—abandoned _him_—to some unknown fate._

"Cornelius, consider," Dumbledore was saying. "You have been unable to get through to him with any of your other tactics, but there is one thing he has inadvertently admitted to; that is his relationship with his parents. In taking his father's name, he has shown himself to feel a strong connection to them. That is sacred ground to him. And who else has a stronger tie to Lily and James that their best friend. If anyone is going to be able to reach him, it is Remus."

Cornelius was spluttering to find another argument, but Dumbledore ignored him and walked over to stand next to Remus who was still staring transfixed at Harry. Fudge began muttering with Scrimgeour behind them, but Remus paid them no mind.

Staring at the boy, Remus could see what Dumbledore had meant when he had said that Remus would understand why they were certain it was Harry. The resemblance to James was uncanny, though Remus thought he saw something of Lily in his expression as well. And there, on his forehead, standing out against the pale skin, was a thin, lightning-shaped scar.

"What do you mean 'taking his father's name'?" Remus asked, his voice flat and emotionless, not looking at Dumbledore.

"He has been going by the name of Liam Jameson," Dumbledore answered. He was watching Harry as well, a fond look upon his aged face.

"Jameson," Remus repeated, more to himself. A sad smile graced his lips as he said it.

There was silence for a moment before Remus said resolutely, "I have to talk to him."

"Of course, my dear fellow," Dumbledore said at the same moment that Fudge declared, "Absolutely not!"

But Remus was beyond caring what anyone else said or did. And thus it was that he, brooking no refusal, walked determinedly through the magical wall, leaving Dumbledore to handle Fudge.

Harry's head jerked up as Remus entered the room. He let out a sigh of resigned aggravation. "No matter how many people are sent in here to interrogate me, it's not going to change the fact that I have no clue in hell what any of you are talking about," the boy ground out. His voice was so much like James's it made Remus pause. The accent was slightly different, however. More clipped. It bespoke of a highly different upbringing.

"I'm not here to interrogate you, Liam," Remus said quietly, pulling out the chair opposite the boy and sitting down.

Harry started at the use of the name. He eyed Remus, mulling it over. "Who are you?" he finally asked cautiously.

It was something. He had shown some interest in something other than escape, at least. Remus thought over his question, trying to come up with an answer that was both truthful and that the boy would want to hear. "I'm...no one," he finally decided.

Harry thought about this, tilting his head in a way that reminded Remus forcibly of Lily. Finally he nodded once in what Remus could only interpret as approval. There was silence in the room. Remus thought about where to go from there. This had all been uncharacteristically impulsive of him; he really had no plan in mind for how to approach this conversation.

"I'm sorry," he said at last. "Clearly there has been a mistake." The boy perked up, hopeful that they were about to let him go. "I do want you to realise that, given the circumstances, the confusion was understandable. You do look uncannily like our Harry. And I think the error was fuelled by a hope that we had found him at last."

He did not look at the boy as he said this, but instead reached into the inner pocket of his cloak to pull out the photo album Dumbledore had asked him to bring. He sensed a stillness fall over the child across from him as he listened to what Remus said. Retrieving the book, Remus laid it gently on the table, carefully positioning it such that the boy would easily be able to see its contents but that it did not appear as though Remus was manipulating him. _Which of course I am_, Remus thought wryly to himself. He hoped, one day, the child could forgive him for this. He hoped he could forgive himself.

He tenderly, reverently, flipped open the cover and stared down at a picture of Lily and James taken their seventh year under a beech tree by the lake at Hogwarts. He continued talking haltingly, still not looking at Harry, but sure the boy's eyes were fixed to the photograph. "You see, this boy, Harry, he was very important to us and we...I...loved him. Very much." He flipped the page to show a picture of the Marauders in the Gryffindor common room.

"His parents were some of the best friends I ever had. We all went to school together, and his father and I were very close." _Flip_. James and Sirius in their Quidditch robes, broomsticks over their shoulders. _Flip._ Lily and James's wedding day. _Flip_. James kissing Lily under the mistletoe on their first Christmas together. _Flip._Lily holding her newborn son, gazing down at him with such love as the world had never seen, tears of happiness brimming in the eyes that were so like her son's. Remus paused on this picture. As he looked down at it, he felt a tear trying desperately to escape from his own eye. He heard a rustle as Harry shifted.

Remus glanced up at Harry. The boy's eyes were glued to the photo of his infant-self and his mother. He looked haunted; his teeth were clenched, his eyes wide and tortured. Remus flipped the page again, his eyes still locked on the boy across from him. So many times had he gone through this album, he did not need to look to see which picture was next. It would be one of his favourites: Lily standing with Harry in her arms, smiling happily at the camera, James with one arm around his wife's shoulders, the other hand resting on the baby's tiny form, a look of sheer pride on his face.

Remus did not take his eyes off of Harry as he said, "Even then, you could tell Harry was going to look just like his father."

After a moment's silence, "What happened to him? This...Harry kid?" Harry asked, hypnotised by the photograph of the happy family.

Remus felt his heart leap with hope. Harry was actually engaging with him. Listening to him. "His parents were murdered when he was barely a year old. He was sent to live with his aunt and uncle until a few years ago when he simply disappeared. No one knows what happened to him. We searched, of course...but there was no sign of him."

A brief spark of emotion quickly stifled occurred behind the green eyes at the word 'murdered.' "And what would you do with him...hypothetically...if you found him?" he asked after another pause. His eyes finally drifted up to meet Remus's.

"Do?" asked Remus, a small smile appearing on his lips. "Well, I'd give him a hug. Tell him how much I'd missed him. How loved he is."

"But he's a human being," Harry interrupted. "You can't just pick him up off the street and turn him into some kind of pet. What about his life? Where would he live?"

"I..." Remus realised he did not actually know the answer to this. Dumbledore would surely want Harry to come to Hogwarts for school, but over the holidays...? "I'm sure his aunt and uncle have been very concerned about him and would be eager to have him home agai—"

"NO!"

The cry was so forceful it rang around the room and Remus froze staring at Harry alarmed as the boy began to talk very fast in short clipped sentences, seeming utterly panicked by the prospect of returning to his former home.

"You can't make me go back there. I won't go. I won't! You can't keep me. You have no right! You can't just take away my life. My home. My friends."

It seemed the game was up. Neither of them was pretending anymore.

"Harry." Remus said the name softly, gently and he reached out a hand to reassuringly still the boy's gesticulating arms and quieten the fears rushing from his lips. At the contact of Remus's hand with his own, Harry withdrew his hand sharply and cradled it to his chest. The two sat silent for a moment, staring into each other's eyes; Harry's looked panicked, Remus's concerned.

"It's alright, Harry. You don't have to see them. We'll figure something out." Remus felt a surge of foreboding at Harry's reaction, but he pushed it down for the time being. _Let's tackle one thing at a time._"For now," Remus continued, "I'm sure we'll want to get a start on your magical education. You can come to Hogwarts where we'll—"

"What if I don't want a magical education," Harry interrupted. "No one seems to care what I want! No one is asking me! All I want to do is go back to my flat, my job, my life! You try to take me to this bloody school, I'll just run away."

A furrow had appeared between Remus's brows as he considered a compromise. His eyes slid to the wall behind him where he knew Dumbledore and the Ministry officials would be standing. _Oh, Fudge is going to kill me for this. _He took a deep breath and let it out before making his proposition. "One year." He said it firmly, looking the boy right in the eye. "You stay with us for one year. Study hard, learn everything you can. If after one year, you still want to leave...no one will stop you." Remus imagined he heard an irate bellow coming from the wall behind him.

Harry stared at him, eyes narrowed, for what felt like hours rather than seconds. "A month," he finally said.

Remus shook his head. "We can't teach you all that you need to know in a month."

"Fine. Three."

"Six. Six months. That will bring us to the end of the term. You'll have time to learn how to control your magic, and you can be introduced to all of the classes you'd be taking.

Again there was silence as Harry considered this. Finally, he gave a single nod and sat back in his chair.

Remus internally let out a sigh of relief. "Alright. Stay here. I'll go see what I can do to arrange your release." He stood and made his way to the magical wall, stealing himself for the battle he was sure he was about to walk into.

Sure enough, upon stepping through the wall, Remus was immediately accosted by Fudge's furious roars. Dumbledore, however, was regarding Remus with what seemed to be pride.

"Well, Cornelius, it seems we will be taking Harry back to Hogwarts, then," Dumbledore was saying cheerfully. Fudge continued to shout incomprehensibly to the room at large.

Dumbledore moved over to speak to Remus privately. "Well done, my boy. Very well done, indeed."

"Headmaster," Remus said looking Dumbledore straight in the eye with some urgency. "I need to know that you are going to do everything in your power to ensure that my word to that boy is kept. If he wants to leave..." he trailed off.

Dumbledore eyed Remus, contemplating him unreadably. "We'll just have to do everything we can to make sure it doesn't come to that." And with that answer which wasn't an answer at all he continued, "Now, I'm sure Harry is very eager to be gone from here."

"It's going to be a hard adjustment for him. He's lived on his own for so long, I just don't know how he'll do with the crowds and the fast pace of Hogwarts."

"Which is precisely why I think he should spend the next week or two with you at your home," replied Dumbledore, matter-of-factly, watching the boy on the other side of the wall closely. "It will give him a little time to adjust to the idea of magic and you can train him in the basics, take him to buy his supplies, help him build some trust..."

"But—"

"He trusts you more than anyone else, so far," said Dumbledore reasonably. "We should take advantage of that."

"Headmaster," Remus cut him off. "It's not that I don't want him there. Quite the contrary. It's just..." he lowered his voice so that Fudge who was now barking out orders to Scrimgeour and Shacklebolt on the far side of the room, "surely the Ministry would never allow this. I'm a _werewolf_!"

"That, my dear fellow," Dumbledore responded, eyes twinkling, "is why we are not going to tell them."

* * *

**Thin streaks **of snow clung to each branch and twig of the tree-lined lane on which they stood. Here and there, clumps of colourless vegetation had succeeded in breaking free of the icy prison, seeking desperately the warmth of the winter sun. The salty smell of the sea clung to the breeze that ruffled Harry's already messy hair. Before them, atop a hill of the Sussex Downs, stood a small, two-story cottage. The walls were of flat grey stones; the roof of red shingles; white-washed shutters framed the windows; frost-coated ivy climbed the wall. It was—there was no other word for it—charming. And Harry was determined to hate it.

Remus trotted up the path leading to the house and paused, realising Harry was no longer with him. He looked back at Harry, raising an eyebrow questioningly. Harry sighed and followed him. Remus held the inviting, red door open for him, and he stepped into the cramp entrance hall and looked around.

To his left, Harry could see a neat and comfortable looking sitting room through an open door. Down a small hallway there was another door, this one closed. To the right, squashed against the wall was a narrow staircase leading to a small landing, off of which were three more doors. On the wall at its base, hanging on a row of hooks, were a couple of those strange cape-things all these nutters wore. Beneath them was an old pair of boots, coated in crusted mud and looking forgotten. Something about the house seemed abandoned. As if no one had lived here in sometime.

"Sitting room," Remus said unnecessarily, nodding his head in the direction of the open room. "Kitchen is through there," he pointed to the second door. "Help yourself to anything you can find anytime you get hungry." He paused as though wanting Harry to say something. He didn't. "I'll, er...show you where you'll be sleeping." He marched up the staircase, Harry dragging his feet behind slowly. He trailed his hand along the smooth wooden railing, his mind occupying itself with insignificant detail rather than any of the million changes that had taken place in his life that day.

Once reaching the top of the stairs, "That's my room," Remus gestured to a closed door behind them and to the left on the landing, facing out from the front of the house. "Feel free to come get me there if you need anything." Remus paused. Harry said nothing. Remus sighed. "Bathroom," Remus continued as they passed the second door. "And this is where we'll put you." Remus opened the last door at the end of the hallway at the back of the house.

"It's not large," said Remus as Harry stepped into the room. It was true. A small bed, a desk, and a bookshelf were crammed in tightly. Harry walked slowly over the bookshelf and ran his fingers along the spines of the books. Based on their titles and the personal effects scattered about the room, Harry got the idea that a teenage boy had lived here before, but not for some time. "It was my room when I was a child," Remus said, as though he had read Harry's mind. His tone was almost apologetic. On the floor along the wall were piled several boxes. Remus noticed these abruptly and flushed. "I've been using this room for storage of late...No one has lived here for years. I'll get them all cleared out first thing tomorrow," he said nervously. He paused. Harry said nothing.

Harry slowly walked around the bed to stand at the window. Below, a neat rock wall surrounded a small garden. From the vantage of the hill, Harry could see out across acres of the Downs. It was an odd place, Sussex. Not like London at all. A patchwork of farmland and pasture stretched out to the East. The sun was setting over deciduous forests to the west. And straight out to the South, just below the horizon, were the chalky white cliffs disappearing into the sea. It was all so incongruous. It was all so lonely.

After a moment of awkward silence, Remus said haltingly, "I'll er...leave you to get settled in, and I'll go...find us something to eat. Why don't you come down to the kitchen in twenty minutes?" He said it as a question and waited for a response. Harry said nothing. "Alright, then." And he left, closing the door behind him. Harry did not look round.

Harry stood at the window, contemplating the view. He had never before seen the sea. He had always wanted to, but this was hardly how he would have hoped for it to happen. After some length, he turned away from the window to consider the room. He crossed over to the tiny bed in one step and seated himself on it gently. He looked down at the patchwork quilt lying atop. It was painstakingly hand-stitched of blues and pale yellows; the sort of thing a mother would make for her child, each thread made of love. For some reason he could not explain, the photograph of his mother holding him as an infant came into his mind. So many emotions were running through his head he could not sort them out. At that moment, he didn't want to try.

He raised his eyes slowly, looking back out the window. From this angle, seated on the edge of the bed, all he could see were the pink-touched, high in the sky. The last dregs of rosy light shined in through the window. Harry closed his eyes and let his head lull back. He took in a deep slow breath and after a moment holding it, let it out.

* * *

**Remus cursed** in frustration as he dug through the pantry, frantically trying to find something even remotely suitable to feed a teenage boy. He finally settled on combining the dregs of several boxes of different kinds of pasta and a dusty can of marinara that he preferred not to question how long it had been there.

He tapped his wand on a large pot to clean out several months' worth of dust before filling it with water and tapping it again to bring it to a boil. As the pasta cooked, he ran a hand through his greying hair and sank into a chair at the kitchen table with a sigh. He could not believe all that had happened that day. Harry's silence concerned him; he didn't know what to do to get him to open up. He sighed again. _Time_, he decided. _There's nothing else for it. He'll get to know you, and eventually, things _will_ be as they should. Just give him time._

But that was easier said than done. Forty minutes had passed, and Harry had not come down. Remus sat at the table waiting, the pasta in front of him going cold. He battled with himself on whether to go retrieve him or to leave him to his privacy. After five more minutes, he finally stood, the chair screeching against the tile floor. He walked up the stairs and knocked softly on the bedroom door. There was no answer. Remus wasn't particularly surprised by this, but he found himself concerned nonetheless. He knocked again. Nothing.

Pushing the door open hesitantly, he pocked his head around the door. The concerned look on his face was transformed into a soft, sad smile. It seemed that the stress of the day had caught up with Harry. The boy was lying on top of the covers, still wearing his shoes and glasses, fast asleep.

Remus crossed to the bed. As gently as he could, he removed the boy's shoes, slid the glasses from his nose, and pulled a blanket from the foot of the bed to tuck around him. Suppressing the urge to push the fringe out of Harry's eyes, Remus retreated back to the door. He paused there to look back at the sleeping child. A crease appeared between his brows as he seemed to debate with himself. After a moment of hesitation, he drew his wand and waved it over the room. With one last glance at the child he had longed to see for so long, he closed the door softly, and retreated to clean up the kitchen.

* * *

**A/N:** D'ack! I'm a terrible person! _Two months_ without an update! Unforgivable. All I can say in my defence is, _my God, vet school interviews are stressful!_ I've scarcely slept two nights running in the same city for the past month. So. Most of this chapter was written little bits at a time in a wide variety of airports all over the world. Seven different cities in four different countries, I believe. So...yeah...sorry again. And as always, thanks very much to all those who reviewed, and a special thanks to all those who I have noticed have gone on to follow my other story as well...yes, I know I said I would update _Knowing_ first, but I just wasn't feeling it. Personally, quality is more important to me that speed or quantity, so I think it's best not to force it. I'll finish it eventually. I've already written the last two chapters, so it'd be a waste if I didn't. Anyway, many apologies and many thanks, once again!


	8. 7 One Small Step

**Chapter 7  
One Small Step**

**His return **to consciousness was abrupt. He did not move for a moment, merely lay where he was, letting his eyes adjust. It proved to be a fruitless effort. It was so dark here. There was no glow of the street lights coming in the windows, no headlamps flashing as the cars rumbled by outside. Just a soft white light shining from the waning moon hanging clear and lonely above the sea. Unwanted childhood memories were pressing at his mind, but Harry forced them back ruthlessly. He wasn't a baby. He refused to be scared of the dark.

The sound of his own breath was echoing in his ears. Everything was so still. So quiet. All there was to be heard were the creaks of the old house, the distant snarl of the waves crashing against the cliffs, his own heart beat banging against his ribs. Everything was so different here. He missed London. He missed the sounds of drunkards stumbling home late at night, of the train clamouring by, the distant sirens, the constant reminders that there were other people in the world beside him. Good or bad; it didn't really matter to him.

What the hell was he doing here?

He was still for a moment, listening for any sign that that Remus bloke might be up and about. It was silent. He didn't know what time it was, but he figured it must be very late. He swung his legs over the end of the bed and leaned down to pull on his trainers, vaguely noting that he couldn't remember having taken them off in the first place.

If there was one thing Harry knew, it was how to move stealthily. He stole softly around the bed and to the door. Pulling it open, he stuck his head out and fixed his eyes upon the door to the bedroom Remus had said was his own. After a moment, convinced no one was coming out of it, he sneaked to the stairs.

Crouching down on the landing, Harry peered down through the bars of the banister. There was no movement below, no light coming from under the door to the kitchen. Harry smiled. This was going to be easy. He'd leave the house and follow the road, keeping to the trees. If he kept walking, he was sure to reach a decent sized city before sun up, and Remus surely wouldn't notice his absence before then. He couldn't be far from Eastbourne or Brighton. From there he would be able to steal aboard a train to Portsmouth or Southhampton. London maybe, though he couldn't stay there; they would be looking for him there. But from London, he could catch a train to anywhere he wished. Bristol maybe. Or perhaps as far as Liverpool or Manchester. It didn't matter as long as it was far away. He had to start over. New city, new job, new name, new life. But it wasn't the first time he had done this, and he doubted it would be the last.

And so, light as a cat, Harry slipped down the stairs, crossed to the door, placed his hand upon the knob, tugged, and...nothing. He tugged again. It didn't budge. He looked around for a lock, but there was none. It must just be stuck. Bracing his foot on the doorjamb, he pulled again with all of his might. Nothing.

"It spelled shut." Harry whipped around so fast he cricked his neck. Remus was standing at the top of the stairs, watching him. "The spell is called _Colloportus_. I'll teach it to you some time. It's relatively elementary." He spoke as if he were merely giving a lesson. His voice was soft, not at all angry, but Harry thought he detected an edge of disappointment to it. "And it was a motion sensory spell that alerted me to your movements. It's a little trickier, but I'm sure we'll be able to tackle it in time."

He stepped down the staircase about halfway, pulled his dressing gown a little more tightly around his shoulders, and then seated himself on the steps. He crossed his arms across his chest and studied Harry who was still frozen to the spot, his hand still gripping the doorknob.

Harry struggled to find words, but none came to mind. There was nothing to say that hadn't already been said. "You can't do this," Harry finally settled for, enforcing his declaration with a glare, though in actually he could feel himself trembling. "You can't keep me here. You have no right to lock me up like a prisoner."

Remus sighed. "You're probably right."

This was not the answer Harry had expected. What was it about this man that he could discompose him so easily? But Harry's anger was returning. _Turn this around. Make it about him. Make him forget about you._"Really don't trust me do you? That you actually had to put spells around your own house to keep me here?"

Remus raised an eyebrow at him. "Given that my suspicions proved true, you're hardly in a position to lecture me about trust. It goes both ways, Harry. We had a deal, remember? Six months. That's all I'm asking for. After that, you can leave if that's what you want."

"You expect me to believe that you'll actually just let me go? I'm not an idiot. You have no intention of keeping your word, so why should I keep mine."

Remus sighed and brought a hand up to massage his temple. "Listen to me, Harry. When the time comes, I am going to do everything in my power to make sure that you're free to make your own decision. I swear it. I realise that might not mean much to you now, but I really do hope that you will come to have a little faith me. I really do want what's best for you."

There was a moment's silence as Remus let Harry digest this. When Harry could not come up with a response, Remus continued.

"I don't want to make you a prisoner, Harry. I don't want you to stay here because you have to. I want you to stay here because you want to. I just want to know you. I _need _to know you."

Harry was silent, looking at this strange man. He didn't believe him. Why should he care what happens to Harry? Why should he care if he lived or died? Harry didn't believe him. But a very small, instantly squelched piece of him wanted to.

After a long pause, Remus stood and walked down the last few stairs to Harry. "Come on. Let's go into the kitchen and have a cup of tea. Talk." He reached out and laid a hand gently on Harry's shoulder to lead him.

Abruptly, the atmosphere changed. Every muscle in Harry's body tensed. Harry felt is fingernails cutting into his palm, his teeth aching as his jaw clenched. The you-know-what was making every cell in his body tingle as it tried to escape again. A snarl escaped his clenched jaws as he forced the magic down. "I don't. Want. A. _Blasted_. Cup. Of. Tea!" And with that, he tore his shoulder from the grip of the shocked man beside him, sprinted up the stairs, into his bedroom, and slammed the door behind him.

Remus stood at the bottom of the steps, staring after the boy with a shocked look on his face. Harry did not hear him go up to bed that night.

* * *

**Remus sat** at on the old sofa in the sitting room, lost deep in a lethargic stupor. He didn't know how long he had been sitting there. He really didn't care. He didn't know what to do. So many times had Remus dreamed of having Harry back, but never could he have imagine it would be like this. He didn't even know how to begin to make Harry trust him, and he so wanted him to. He needed him to. Remus really didn't know how he could survive it if, after all this, after discovering that Harry was in fact alive, the boy wanted nothing to do with him. Perhaps it would have been better if he had continued believing Harry to be dead for the rest of his life.

No. That was a lie. Rejection or no, Remus needed to know Harry. Even if Harry never loved Remus as he would have hoped, Remus needed to see that he was alive, safe, happy. Nothing else mattered.

Remus was jerked out of his daze when he abruptly perceived a grey light streaming in from the east. He could hear the chirping of a stonechat outside the window as it picked through the frost-hardened ground looking for worms. When did it get to be morning? He glanced at the clock on the mantel over the fireplace opposite him. Seven o'clock. He heaved himself off the couch and stretched his aching back. He was getting way too old to be going a night without sleep.

He climbed the stairs laboriously and paused at the top. He stared jadedly at the door concealing Harry; it was still shut tight and no movement could be heard from within. Remus sighed and moved to the bathroom. Turning on the tap, he waited until the water got warm, looking up at his reflection in the mirror. A prematurely greying man looked back at him. There were dark circles under his eyes, his skin was pale and clammy, stubble was sprouting across his chin, his hair standing on end. Sighing again, he reached down and cupped the now steaming water in his hands and brought it to his face. He stood there for a moment, eyes closed, water dripping down his face. Brushing his hands back to comb his fingers through his hair, Remus let his breath out, cracked his sore neck, and reached for a towel to dry his face and hands.

After brushing his teeth, shaving, and ambling to his bedroom to change his clothes, Remus went back downstairs to make some breakfast. Harry would certainly be hungry; he hadn't eaten at all yesterday. Upon arriving in the kitchen, however, Remus remembered that there wasn't enough food in the house to feed a flobberworm. He grumbled as he rummaged hopelessly though the pantry. Just as he was wondering if he should quickly floo to Hogwarts for some food and hope that Harry remained asleep, a loud crack rang around the room. Remus jumped, startled, and smacked his head on a shelf.

Poking his head out of the pantry to discern the cause of the sound, Remus's looked straight into a pair of large, round, brown eyes in a large, round, brown face.

"Good morning, Master Professor, sir!" the house elf said in his high squeaky voice.

"Good morning," Remus replied, massaging the bump forming on the back of his head. On closer inspection, Remus realised the house elf was wearing a tea towel with a familiar crest. From Hogwarts, then. "Was there something I can do for you?" Remus queried.

"Oh, no sir! Master Dumbledore is sending Nobb to bring Master Professor Sir food, sir. Master Dumbledore thought Master might not have any groceries." The elf gestured to the kitchen table upon which a half dozen bags and paper-wrapped packages sat.

Remus let out an appreciative breath. Making a mental note to buy Dumbledore a particularly nice Christmas gift this year, Remus turned back to the elf with a grateful smile. "Thank you, Nobb. You are a life-saver."

The house elf replied with a toothy grin. "Master Dumbledore is also giving Nobb this to give to Sir," Nobb declared, holding out a small golden key. "Master Dumbledore is saying it is the key to Young Master's Gringotts vault." Remus took the proffered key, nodding in understanding. Dumbledore intended Remus to escort Harry to Diagon Alley to purchase his school things.

"Is there anything Nobb can be doing for Master, sir?"

"No, thank you, Nobb. I can manage from here. I'm sure you've got plenty of work to keep you busy back at Hogwarts. And please. Send my gratitude back to Dumbledore."

Nobb nodded his head, ears flapping and Disapparated with a loud _crack_.

Remus directed his attention to the groceries. In one of the bags he discovered a carton of eggs and a milk jug and couple of large ripe tomatoes. Unwrapping one of the packages produced a dozen plump, juicy sausages. He pulled out a skillet and set about making breakfast, suddenly in a much more optimistic mood.

* * *

**The winter** sun was streaming in his window in a manner that was all together too cheery. Harry glowered at it. Rolling off the bed, Harry poked his head out of his bedroom door cautiously. He heard rummaging coming from downstairs. He stood for a moment in indecision, his eyes travelling between the staircase and the bathroom door. After a moment, he stepped lithely into the bathroom and shut the door firmly behind him. The room was small and cramped, a toilet, sink, and bathtub crammed in wherever they could be fit. He navigated his way to the toilet to relieve himself. After washing his hands and face, Harry looked around, unsure of what to do next.

After a moments indecision, he was determined to wait it out in the bedroom he had been offered. The minute he opened the bathroom door, however, his nose had a different idea. The smell of grilling sausages wafted up the stairs and met with his nostrils. His stomach grumbled loudly in objection to his previous plan.

Creeping down the stairs stealthily, Harry approached the kitchen door. Pushing it open, he discovered Remus standing at the stove with his back to him. Harry watched surreptitiously as the man scooped sizzling sausages from a skillet and added them to a plate already loaded with grilled tomatoes. Harry's mouth was watering. Remus turned to set the plate on the small dining table in the middle of the room and his eyes met with Harry's.

"Well, good morning. Perfect timing. Why don't you sit down and help yourself," he said, gesturing to one of two place settings at the table. "The eggs are just about ready," he added, turning his attention back to the stove.

Harry hesitated in the doorway, but his stomach soon won out over his brain. He took the proffered seat, but sat motionlessly, eyeing the plate of sausages before him. The man had said to help himself, but...

Remus was pulling a stack of toast out of the oven and placing them on a plate next to a half dozen boiled eggs. He set the plate on the table next to him first, seated himself opposite Harry, shook out his napkin, and scooted his chair closer to the table. Only then did he notice that Harry had not made any move to eat.

"Is something wrong?" Remus asked, raking his eyes across the food to see if there was something amiss. "Would you like something different? I think I saw some kippers in there," he nodded his head in the direction of the panty. "Or I could make some porridge..."

Harry shook his head. "This is fine," he managed, still staring at all the food in wonder.

"Alright, then." But when Harry still made no move to serve himself, Remus exhaled perplexedly and began to fork a few sausages and tomatoes onto Harry's plate from across the table. These were followed by and an egg and a couple pieces of toast. As Remus turned his attention to loading up his own plate, Harry nibbled hesitantly on a piece of toast. It wasn't until Remus had cracked his own egg open with a spoon and dug in that Harry forked a sausage and brought it to his mouth. He couldn't remember the last time he had tasted anything so wonderful. He moved on to an egg and was fast stuffing his face with everything in reach.

After Remus had finished two eggs himself, he sat back and watched contemplatively as Harry ate. He had not interrupted the boy's meal with talk to this point, but when Harry helped himself to his third egg with no little vigour, Remus asked guardedly, "When was the last time you ate?"

Harry paused, his fork halfway to his mouth, staring at Remus, wary again. He had almost forgotten the man was there, so busy had he been enjoying the food. "I dunno," he responded, cagily. He abruptly realised yolk was dripping steadily from his fork and he lowered it hastily to his plate. "Couple of days?"

A strangely pained look that Harry could not interpret appeared on Remus's face. He regarded Harry solemnly for a moment before nodding and saying simply, "Eat up."

But Harry was fast beginning to feel sick. His body was starting to reject the vast amounts of food he had just forced into it. He didn't think he had eaten so much in his life. A part of him wanted to continue for he never knew when he would see his next meal, but he didn't think he could keep much more down. He was determined to finish his plate, however, not knowing what this Remus bloke would do if he wasted food. And so he forced down the nausea rising inside him and swallowed the last few mouthfuls of egg and sausage.

"So, what would you like to do today," Remus asked over his teacup as Harry pushed his plate aside. Harry raised his eyes to the man in surprise. He was asking _him_? What Harry really wanted to do was enter a food coma for the next year and a half, but he didn't think Remus would like that answer. So instead, he elected for a simple shrug.

"I thought you might wish to come with me to London to do some shopping," Remus said. Harry immediately perked up at the word 'London,' coma thoughts forgotten. "You'll be needing a lot of new things for school. Books, potion ingredients, robes, and a wand, of course," Remus said more thinking aloud to himself. "But if you would prefer to stay here and get settled in, that's fine. We can go in a day or two."

But the prospect of being back in the city was really all it took to persuade him. Harry really didn't care what they would be doing. He was just about to jump up and ask what they were waiting for when a thought struck him, and he slumped dejectedly in his seat. "I haven't any money," he muttered, very quietly.

"Oh," said Remus, abruptly comprehending Harry's change of mood. "Don't worry about that. Your parents left you plenty. We'll just have to make a quick stop at the bank."

Harry stared at him. _I have money? All those years of begging and stealing and digging meals out of rubbish bins, and I had money just sitting in a bank somewhere?_

After a moment lost in thought, Harry hopped up from the kitchen table. Remus looked up at him, carefully placing his teacup down. "Does this mean 'yes'?" he asked.

"Of course! Let's get going." He looked down at the dirty dishes on the table and winced. He quickly began collecting them and moving to carry them over to the sink. The sooner he cleared up, the sooner they could go.

"What are you doing?" Harry turned to see Remus was giving him a very odd look.

Harry looked down the plates in his hand. "Washing the dishes." _What does it look like I'm doing?_

Remus studied him. Harry was really beginning to hate it when he did that. "Leave that, Harry; it's really not necessary. It'll be much quicker if I do it." He pulled out one of those weird stick things, pointed it at the dishes, and said clearly "_Scourgify!_" In a flash of yellow light the plates in Harry's hands were suddenly free of all bits of food and sparklingly clean. Harry gaped at them.

For some time, he merely stood there, staring at the plates in front of him, not moving. "Are you alright," Remus asked, concerned.

Harry jerked out of his reverie and looked up at Remus, then back at the dishes. "Yes," he said slowly. "It's just..."

"What?" Remus asked when he did not continue.

Harry looked up at him again. Remus was looking at him, his expression kind, inviting him to say what was troubling him. Harry took a deep breath. "It's just...I was so used to being the only one who could do this kind of stuff. The only freak. The idea that there are others in the world...a whole school full...a whole _government_...all of these other people who are like me. And all this time, I had no idea...It's just...weird, I guess," he finished lamely.

Remus was looking at him sadly. "I can't imagine what this must all be like for you Harry. But please believe me when I say, you will adjust. Just give it time. You're not alone anymore. And I hope that, with time, you'll come to see that as a good thing."

There was silence in the room. Harry didn't know how to respond to that. He didn't know if he wanted to adjust. Why did everything have to change? After a while in which Harry did not respond, Remus said softly, "Now why don't you run on upstairs and put on your shoes. I'll finish cleaning up down here. And I suppose I should try to find a jacket that might fit you. It's awfully cold out there."

* * *

**Remus watched** as the boy trotted up the stairs. It wasn't much; just a couple of halting sentences. Not much, but it was something. The boy had taken him into his confidence. Said what was on his mind. Expressed something other than anger and hate. It was one small step. One small step that could, in time, lead to another and then another and another.

And so it was with some little sanguinity that Remus turned back to cleaning up the remains of their breakfast.

* * *

**A/N: ** Sorry, pretty short chapter, I know. But I decided to split this chapter into two so that you could have an update more quickly. Next chapter: Diagon Alley and Harry makes a few life-altering realisations! I'm off to spend a month in Sweden with my brother in a week's time, though. I'll try to update once more before then. No promises, mind; awfully busy right now. Oh, and by the way, on my profile I put up a link to a floor plan I drew of Remus's cottage in a fit of insomnia. Take a look if you're interested, but it's really not important so no obligation. Anyways...as always, thanks for reading and please review!


	9. 8 Diagon Alley

**Chapter 8  
Diagon Alley**

"**You want me **to do what?"

Harry stood before the fire place in the sitting room sporting a borrowed jacket that was more than a few sizes too big. It reminded him of wearing Dudley's old hand-me-downs as a child. Still...he had worn much worse since then.

"I know it seems complicated, but it's really quite simple. Just sprinkle the powder in the flames, step in, and say, very clearly, 'Diagon Alley.'"

Harry stared doubtfully at the crackling flames. They looked very...hot.

"Trust me. I'll be right behind you." Harry was sure Remus meant this to be reassuring, but Harry was not sure he was comforted by the thought.

Nonetheless, he took a pinch of powder and a deep breath before doing as Remus had instructed. The instant the powder touched the flames, they roared to life and turned a brilliant, sparkling green. Harry hesitantly inched a toe in, then his whole foot. Gradually he shifted his weight so he was standing in the hearth.

It did not feel anything like he had expected it to. The flames licked and tickled his exposed skin and ruffled his baggy clothing. It was actually quite warm and comfortable. Maybe this wasn't going to be so bad after all.

"Now just say your destination and try to relax. And wait for me at the other end. Stay by the fire and don't talk to anyone. I'll join you a moment later."

Harry swallowed, licked his lips, and then said, loudly and clearly, "Daigon Alley!"

Harry quickly discovered he was wrong about the 'not-so-bad' bit. He had begun spinning very fast. His elbows and feet kept knocking hardly against something that felt like rock or brick, his vision was blurred by the fast rotation, and his jaw was clenched in an attempt to keep himself from vomiting.

Just as he was thinking he could stand it no longer, his feet slammed into solid ground so abruptly, he tripped and fell painfully to his knees. He braced the palm of one hand on the stone floor, breathing hard, the other arm going to cradle his woozy stomach.

After taking a moment to catch his breath, he sat back on his haunches and looked up. Remus chose that moment to step gracefully out of the fire in a whoosh of green flame.

The older man looked around at eye-level before his gaze travelled down to the floor where Harry was still sitting rather shell-shocked. One of Remus's cheeks twitched, and Harry had the strong impression that he was fighting back a smile.

"Up you get, now," Remus said good-naturedly. He reached down, took hold of Harry by the upper arm, and hauled him to his feet. Harry felt his teeth ground together.

"What, are you trying to kill me? What an incredibly dumb way to travel!" he said, glaring and making quite the business of brushing soot off his clothes.

"Here, allow me." Remus pulled out his wand and tapped it sharply on Harry's shoulder. Harry continued his furious beating of his clothes until he realised they had been magically cleaned. He elected to transfer his glower to Remus instead.

Remus's battle with his smile was finally lost at that. "Don't worry. You'll get used to it. The first time one floos is always tough. Now. Shall we get going?"

With one last glare at Remus at the thought of a _second_ time, Harry finally looked around. They appeared to be in some sort of pub. But it was quite unlike any other pub Harry had ever seen. It was dimly lit by mismatched candelabras placed pell-mell about the room. It was furnished with archaic wooden furniture, and the subjects of the portraits on the walls were not only moving but were actually flitting from frame to frame to whisper excitedly with their neighbours.

The clientele were perhaps even queerer that the pub itself. Most of them were dressed as though they had just walked out of a Renaissance painting. Some of them, particularly the cluster of small, sharp-faced creatures in the corner, did not even look human!

It was not merely their appearance that was odd, however. Their behaviour also seemed quite unusual. They were not sitting in small groups at various tables enjoying a relaxed drink and some conversation as one would expect. Nearly all of the patrons, with the exception of the sharp-faced creatures who were silently watching the others, were clustered around the bar, all talking loudly and excitedly. Several of them were clutching newspapers and Harry wondered if something they had read had caused a commotion. Harry caught snatches of conversation over the hubbub.

"'S'right. 'Eared 'e's been livin' righ' 'ere in London, I did."

"But what in heaven's name happed to the poor dear?"

"By Jove, I wonder—"

Harry made to move in their direction, but Remus halted him. "Er...let's go this way, Harry," he said very quietly, looking at the large group of people with what seemed to be discomfort.

Remus led the way along the dark back wall of the pub, manoeuvring around chairs and tables. As they passed one of the tables, Harry noticed a newspaper lying next to a forgotten glass of amber liquid. Harry glanced curiously at the headline.

**LOST AND FOUND  
The Boy Who Lived Lives!**

Harry vaguely wondered what this meant before reminding himself that he didn't care about the goings-on of the wizarding world. He was going to serve his six months and then go back to his own life. Whatever was going on, it had nothing to do with him.

Remus manoeuvred them across the room without drawing the attention of any of the people about. At the far end of the pub, they came to a small wood-planked door. Remus opened it quietly, glancing at the bar patrons before slipping in and ushering Harry through. Wondering at Remus's odd behaviour, Harry followed.

They were in a very small, walled courtyard, standing among rubbish bins. Harry looked around sceptically before turning to Remus. The older man was standing still, staring at the door as though concerned someone would follow them through. One hand was fishing through a pocket, and a second later, he pulled out a wand."

"I think we came through the wrong door," said Harry to bring Remus's attention back to their present surroundings.

"Huh?" said Remus, distracted. He looked around. "No, no. This is right." He walked up to one of the dust bins, raised his wand, and tapped it on one of the bricks in the wall with one final glance at the door to the pub.

Looking back on it later, Harry would realise that was the exact moment his perception of the world changed.

* * *

**Remus was **agitated. No. That was not strong enough of a word. There was no word for what he was feeling. He glanced back over his shoulder at the entrance to the Leaky Caldron nervously as he guided an open-mouthed Harry through the brick archway to Diagon Alley.

_What an incredibly stupid and impulsive idea this was. Honestly. What was I thinking? _The truth of the matter was that he had suggested coming to Diagon Alley to fill in the silences, soften Harry up a bit. He had entirely failed to consider exactly what it would entail. Of course news had spread of Harry's reappearance. Of course people would be talking about it. Be looking out for him.

The fact of the matter was, this little foyer into the wizarding world was going to raise a lot of questions both in Harry and in those they would meet. And, truth be told, Remus was not at all sure he was prepared to answer them. He had no idea how much Harry knew about his past: about his parents' death; about Voldemort; about Harry's own fame.

And so it was that Remus was rather distracted as he led Harry down the cobblestone street, through hoards of people who were doing their Christmas shopping. Remus was grateful that most of them seemed too preoccupied to pay much mind to a certain teen-aged boy who was currently staring at the broomstick display in the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies with an expression torn between wonder and bewilderment and cynicism.

Remus felt rather guilty as he rushed Harry down the street; he had even hastened Harry along when he had shown signs of wishing to linger at Eeylops Owl Emporium. Remus could not even imagine what it was like for one raised in the Muggle world to see Diagon Alley for the first time. To discover that magic existed and then see such a display of it. Remus wanted to let Harry explore and ask questions and gain an interest. But he also didn't want Harry being scared off by a mob of people gushing over him and asking for his autograph. And so he hurried Harry down past Madam Malkin's Robes for all Occasions and Florean Fortesque's Ice Cream Parlour until they came to the great white building that was Gringotts Wizarding Bank.

As they marched up the steps, Harry discretely eyed the goblins who were holding the doors open for them. He read the inscription on the next set of silver doors with a cocked head before passing through these too. Inside the vast marble hall, Harry stopped. He stared around wide-eyed at the hundred or so goblins who were at work at various desks and counters positioned about the cavernous marble hall or escorting clients to their vaults.

"What are they?" Harry whispered very quietly to Remus.

"Goblins," Remus replied, equally quietly. "They have control over the wizarding banking system. Fascinating creatures, goblins. They hold a rather singular position in wizarding society; not quite outside it, but not inside it either. Most wizards consider them inferior. Ridiculous, really; they're cleverer than us, generally speaking.

"Always watch your step with goblins; their culture is different from ours, and you never really know what will offend. And you don't want to offend a goblin. They rarely care much for the affairs of wizards, but if you get on the wrong side of them, they'll make you pay for it, and they'll never forget it. Which might be what makes them so good at their job here," he added as an afterthought.

Harry listened to this description seriously, eyeing the creatures surrounding them. Remus thought he detected some little nervousness in the boy's countenance, though he schooled his features well.

"We won't be here long. We just need to make a withdrawal from the vault your parents' left you and then we can be on our way. Come on."

He led Harry up to a free goblin, digging the small golden key out of his pocket. He laid it on the counter top, took a deep breath to prepare himself for the potential scene this could cause, and said, "Hello. Mr. Harry Potter wishes to make a withdrawal."  
_  
Thank God, goblins tend to have such an egocentric outlook on the world. _The grizzled old goblin barely spared a glance for Harry before picking up the key to inspect it. There would be no commotion over Harry here. He relaxed marginally.

"Everything seems to be in order," the old goblin said, handing the key back to Remus. I'll have someone take you down. GRIPHOOK!"

A second goblin approached them then. "Vault 442," said the goblin. At that, Griphook looked at them and his slanted eyes lingered only slightly longer on Harry before he lead them through a door and out of the marble hall.

Speeding down into the caverns below Gringotts Bank, Remus watched Harry. The boy was a bit of an enigma. Fearless in some respects, but in others, Remus got the impression he was determinedly hiding a side of him that was very much a frightened little child. The boy chose this moment to demonstrate the fearless side of his personality by hanging over the edge of the cart as they traversed an enormous grotto, the ground, twenty metres below, fraught with hundreds of wicked looking stalagmites. Remus, wondering when he had become an anxious mother hen, grabbed the back of the boy's shirt, imagining the fall he would make if the cart pitched unexpectedly. The boy started, looked around at Remus with round eyes, and there after remained in his seat, though his head continued to swivel every which way.

Upon reaching the vault, Harry stepped out of the cart looking slightly exhilarated. Remus followed suit, and stood by to let Griphook unlock the door. Harry, who was analyzing the construction of the cart tracks, turned back to the vault at the sound of the door creaking open, did a double-take, and let his jaw drop.

"This...this is all mine?" Harry asked, awestruck.

"All yours," Remus confirmed.

Harry did not move. He merely stood, staring at the heaps of Galleons, piles of Sickles, and mounds of Knuts. Remus could not interpret his expression at all. It seemed almost...bitter.  
Harry let out his breath noisily. "All this time," Harry finally muttered. "All those years. And this was just sitting here. Completely untouched. Forgotten."

Remus could think of no response to this. Harry had still not spoken about his past, but from what Dumbledore had told him about the conditions they had found him in, Remus could only imagine this money would have been most welcome over the years. The silence stretched for some time before Griphook cleared his throat impatiently.

Remus jerked out of his reverie and pulled out a leather money purse and began loading it with handfuls of coins. "The gold ones are Galleons, the silver, Sickles, and the bronze, Knuts. There are seventeen Sickles to a Galleon and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle. That should be enough to get you by. We'll exchange a few Galleons to Muggle money upstairs, so we can buy you some new Muggle clothes." Here he eyed the ragged t-shirt that Harry had been wearing since they had met in the interrogation room, but elected not to comment.

Harry still had not spoken. He was standing stock still, staring at the money in the vault with a rather despondent expression. When Remus straightened with the money bag in his hand, Harry looked at him for a moment, turned, and made his way back to the cart. Remus followed and Griphook locked the door behind them.

* * *

**Outside, a **light snow had begun to fall. Remus and Harry stood on the marble steps leading into Gringotts as Remus contemplated where it would be best to start. Remembering a couple of books he had been meaning to pick up, he decided Flourish and Blott's was as good a place to start as any. They could always instruct that their purchases be owled to them so they wouldn't have to carry them around for the rest of the day. And so, after patting his pocket to make sure the Muggle notes he had exchanged in the bank were still secure, Remus led Harry left toward the bookstore.

Inside, Remus watched Harry interestedly as the boy looked around, mouth slightly agape, eyes wide. He walked between the shelves, running his finger reverently along the spine of _Common Magical Ailments and Afflictions_, reading the back cover _Modern Magical History_, and flipping gently through _Practical Defensive Magic and Its Use Against the Dark Arts_.

Harry abruptly seemed to notice Remus was watching him closely, and his face went slightly pink. "I've never seen so many books in my life," he mumbled quietly.

"You like to read?"

"Back...back home," he seemed to stumble over the word. "In Bethnal Green, when the library had books that were too tattered or some such, they would put them in a box on the front step for anyone to help themselves to. I tried to walk by as often as I could so that I'd get first pick. Still. They were never exactly the best books ever written." He looked rather sad as he reminisced about this.

"Well, now you can pick whichever books you like," Remus said in an attempt to cheer him up.

Harry's blush deepened at this. "No. That's, er...really not necessary. I'll just stick to my school books."

Deciding not to press the matter, Remus directed Harry to the potions section to find Arsenius Jugger's _Magical Drafts and Potions_. He meanwhile stood in the general spells section frowning. After some debate, he scooped all four of the first books from the _Standard Book of Spells_ series into his arms. As they sought out _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ and _A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_ and _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_, Remus kept a close watch on the kinds of books which seemed to draw Harry's eye. Christmas was, after all, just a week away.

Remus was grateful that the assistant keeping watch over the store seemed too harried to give Harry a second glance. After paying for the books and leaving instructions concerning where they were to be delivered, they stepped out of the shop and made their way to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

As Remus told Madam Malkin how many sets of Hogwarts robes his companion would need, she eyed Harry in a way that told Remus all too well that she recognised him. Nonetheless, she was all business as she led Harry over to a stool and slipped a long black robe over his head. She did not talk as she began hemming the robes to the right length. Remus seized at the moment. Telling Harry he was just off across the street to pick up some quills and parchment for him, he hurried back to Flourish and Blott's.

A few minutes later, Remus retuned, Christmas shopping out of the way and toting enough school supplies to last Harry to the end of term. Madam Malkin was just finishing with the last of Harry's new school robes. When she straightened and slipped the newly hemmed robes from Harry's body, Remus requested that three more robes and a heavy winter cloak be made for everyday-wear and that they should be sent to them by owl once they were finished. After handing over the necessary gold, they made their way once again out into the cold.

"Ollivanders next, I think," said Remus thoughtfully as they strolled down the alley.

"What kind of shop is that?" Harry asked curiously.

"It's where we'll get your wand."

There was silence for a moment. Remus noticed Harry eyeing Remus's pocket where the handle of his own wand was just barely poking out.

"Why do I need one? Why does anyone need one? I manage just fine without it."

Remus paused, wondering how to explain this. Wondering if he could. He wasn't sure he understood it himself. "You're...an exception."

"A freak, you mean." Harry's voice was harsh, but the callousness seemed directed inward to himself rather than at Remus.

"That's hardly the word I would have used," Remus said dryly, wondering why that word had become so ingrained in the boy's vocabulary. "'Gifted,' I think, might be better suited. The wand is merely a tool through which one can channel magic more precisely and more powerfully. The magic comes from within you, just as it does for everyone else, but the wand allows it to manifest itself more easily. It is normal for wizarding children to exhibit some wandless magic at a young age, however, in these cases it is almost always purely accidental. By the time they are of an age to be channelling magic intentionally, they have started at Hogwarts and have received their first wands. It is, therefore, unnecessary for them to ever learn to channel without a wand, and very few ever manage more than your most basic spell. In your case, however, you did not come to school or receive a wand. You were forced to learn the hard way. As such, you never had the advantages of a wand, so you had to develop control without it; a much more difficult task, but one which will ultimately give you a leg up, I think. With a wand, though, you'll find you will have considerably more command over your magic, and you will find that your spells will be considerably more potent."

Harry looked at him sceptically. "You sound like some kind of hokey inspirational speaker, lecturing on how adversity builds character or some such rubbish."

Remus gave a dry chuckle. "We'll see how hokey you find it when you hold your first wand. It's an incredibly singular experience, I could never describe.

At this point, they had arrived outside the narrow, shabby shop of Ollivanders. Remus opened the door for Harry and heard the tinkling of a bell in the back of the shop. They waited quietly in the front, Remus resting his hands on the counter, Harry leaning over to inspect the lone wand lying on a faded purple cushion in the window display. Remus got the impression the boy was just trying to keep himself busy to hide the uneasiness most felt upon entering the dark and dingy shop.

"Good day," said a soft voice as Mr. Ollivander emerged from between a pair of dusty, ceiling-height, shelves. Harry jumped like a child caught doing something he shouldn't. Mr. Ollivander looked at him with his pale, shining eyes. "Ah, yes. I thought I might be seeing you. Harry Potter. I had heard the rumours, of course. Most extraordinary. Most extraordinary, indeed." Harry frowned and glanced at Remus confusedly. Remus determinedly kept his face blank. The fool. They had gotten through the day so well. Not a single person causing a fuss or bringing up unwanted questions, and now it was all going to fall apart. Why couldn't the man just fit Harry with a wand and let them be on their way?

Mr. Ollivander stepped forward until he was so close to Harry that the boy looked exceedingly uncomfortable. Mr. Ollivander looked deep into Harry's eyes for a moment before his gaze travelled up to the lightning-shaped scar. A long-fingered sinuous hand reached up to brush aside the hair that was impeding his view. At that Harry jerked back a few paces, giving Mr. Ollivander a look that said, only too clearly, 'What the hell do you think you're doing?'

Mr. Ollivander seemed impenitent. He merely changed his focus to Remus. "Remus Lupin! Maple, ten and three quarters inches, phoenix feather, I believe? You still use it?"

"I do," Remus responded impassively.

"May I?" Remus handed over his wand and Mr. Ollivander ran his fingers over it reverently. "A fine wand, that one. You take excellent care of it." He handed it back to Remus, and Remus nodded in acknowledgement.

"Now then, Mr. Potter. You'll be needing a wand, I expect," he continued. Harry did not reply, but glanced at Remus as though quite unsure of what to make of this man. "Let me see. Which is your wand arm?" he asked, pulling a tape measure from his pocket.

Harry looked at Remus nervously again before saying "Er, well...I'm right-handed."

Harry watched the tape measure with some fascination as it measured him of its own accord, Mr. Ollivander, meanwhile, roaming through the shelves of dusty boxes. As he collected various boxes, Mr. Ollivander gave a speech very similar to the one Remus remembered from when he himself bought his wand. "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and dragon heartstrings. No two Ollivander wands are exactly the same, and you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand as you would with your own.

"Now, try this one. Oak and dragon heart string. Eight inches. Give it a wave." No sooner had Harry grasped the wand than Mr. Ollivander whipped it out of his grip. "Beech and phoenix feather." This too was snatched from his grip. "Willow and Unicorn Hair. Ten inches. No, no."

The pile of discarded wands was growing. Remus watched in surprise as wand after wand was rejected. He was beginning to feel worried. Perhaps Harry had been without a wand too long. Maybe he wouldn't be able to find a match. There was not much precedent for this situation, after all.

Mr. Ollivander, on the other hand, seemed to grow more and more cheerful with each wand that failed to produce the desired response. "Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry. We'll find the perfect match for you—I wonder—yes, why not. Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."

Remus watched as Harry's face changed as he took up this wand. It was an expression he remembered well, and Remus smiled in satisfaction. Harry fingered the wand with a look of awe on his face, breathing deep and quick, and Remus remembered that feeling of warmth and rightness that seeped through the wood into one's body the first time they came into contact. Harry raised the wand above his head and brought it swishing down, releasing a fountain of red and gold sparks.

Remus's smile widened and Mr. Ollivander cried, "Oh, bravo! Oh, very good indeed. Well, well, well. How curious...how very curious..."

Mr. Ollivander went about wrapping up the wand, all the while muttering "Curious...most curious..."

Remus was starting to get annoyed with the man again. Harry, however, beat him to the punch. "Are you planning on telling us what's so 'curious'?"

Mr. Ollivander fixed Harry with his pale stare. "I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather—just one other. It is curious that you should be destined for this wand when it's brother—why, its brother gave you that scar."

Remus felt the blood drain from his face, his heart drop to the pit of his stomach. Harry looked very confused and was opening his mouth to ask something, but Remus hastened to cut him off.

"How much do we owe you, Mr. Ollivander?"

"Seven Galleons," Mr. Ollivander replied, fixing his stare on Remus now.

Remus hastily extracted the necessary money, thrust it in Mr. Ollivander's direction, took up the box containing Harry's new wand, and marched Harry in the direction of the door.

"I think we can expect great things from you, Mr. Potter...After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things—terrible, yes, but great."

Harry began to turn back to Mr. Ollivander, but Remus put an arm protectively around the boy's shoulders and steered him out of the shop. As he opened the door, Remus looked back one last time to glower at Mr. Ollivander, but the man merely stood there watching them go expressionlessly.

"What did he mean by that?" Harry asked the minute the door closed behind them.

"Never mind. We'll talk about it later," Remus replied curtly. He headed off in the direction of the Leaky Caldron, arm still around Harry's shoulders. But the boy shook it off then and looked up and Remus, frowning.

"Who's 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named'?"

"We'll talk about it later," Remus said more firmly than he meant to. Harry stared at him for a moment, the frown deepening, but he obliged in letting it go. For the time being.

As they walked down the street, Remus contemplated Mr. Ollivander's words. The brother wand to Voldemort's? It was disturbing, no doubt about that. He had no idea what it meant. He would need to discuss it with Dumbledore at the first opportunity.

Just as they were passing Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour Remus happened to glance up and catch sight of a person who made his eyes go wide. Dedalus Diggle. Remus was fond of Dedalus; the man's heart was always in the right place, and he had once helped Remus out of a tight spot during the War. But right at that moment, Dedalus Diggle was one of the last men on earth Remus wanted to see. The man had idolised the entire Potter family, was much too easily excited, and was the quickest man to spread gossip in the entirety of the wizarding world.

Thinking fast, he gripped Harry by the upper arm and steered him toward Fortescue's. Harry looked up at him indignantly. "Let's get an ice cream," Remus said, by way of a response.

"Right," said Harry in a voice positively dripping with sarcasm. "Because what more logical snack could there be than ice cream while out in the coldest winter England has ever seen."

"It'll be warm enough inside," Remus said, distractedly, pulling the door open and sneaking a look over his shoulder.

Inside, Remus asked Florean for two of his specialty—chocolate and raspberry. Florean, however, didn't seem to hear him, busy as he was looking at Harry. Remus kicked himself, remembering that Florean also had known Lily and James. Still, he had more sense than Dedalus, so it was the lesser of two evils. Florean merely stood there and looked at Harry with an expression that seemed close to tears. Harry was looking incredibly uncomfortable with this and he frowned questioningly at Remus.

Florean finally seemed to snap out of his reverie. "Two chocolate and raspberry. Comin' up."

"How much—" Remus began to ask, but Florean shook his head, wiping his eye surreptitiously with a shoulder.

"On the house."

Remus thanked the man and directed Harry to a table in the back corner. Remus distinctly heard Florean blow his nose.

They ate their ice creams in silence, Harry lost in thought, Remus lost in apprehension.

After they had finished their ice creams and Remus was convinced they had given Dedalus enough time to have moved on, Remus and Harry continued on their path. They stopped in at a shop for various magical instruments to get Harry some scales and a cauldron, and then again at the apothecary to purchase some basic potions ingredients.

With that, they were brought back to the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron. Before re-entering the pub, Harry looked pensively back over his shoulder at the winding, cobbled street, fast disappearing as the brick archway in the wall diminished.

* * *

**Harry didn't **know what to feel: He was in awe of the bustling energy in this new world; fascinated by the magical instruments, books, potions, and creatures; and all together distrustful of everyone and everything. There was something Remus wasn't telling him. He was sure of it. Remus had made sure to keep Harry away from some places and people. And others...the way people had looked at him was just...odd. Strange expressions or maybe just a little longer than was natural. And the things Mr. Ollivander had said. And the things Remus hadn't.

Harry followed Remus as he slipped quietly along the back of the dingy tavern. Just another piece of proof that something odd was going on. This time, Remus did not lead them back to the fire but rather to another door. He pulled it open and ushered Harry through.

Harry stopped. It was all just so incongruous. Buses and cars were rumbling past noisily, honking and revving their engines, crowds of people were hurrying by: business men in suits, hoisting their briefcases up to check their watches; mothers dragging their children by the hand as they hurried to complete their Christmas shopping; a gaggle of school children, all talking and laughing happily. Harry looked around and recognised this as Charing Cross Road. They were back in _his_ world. The world he knew. The world he understood.

"This way," said Remus from behind him. Harry whipped his head around and scrambled to catch up with Remus who was striding south.

Five or ten minutes later they had turned right onto Embankment Place. Harry just barely caught sight of the London Eye tuning gracefully over the tops of the surrounding shops and cafes before Remus led him down the concrete steps to Embankment Station. He fumbled with the automated ticket machines and then led Harry through the turn styles, seeming rather intrigued as they swallowed his ticket only to spit it back out at the top. Shaking his head, he moved on. Harry followed suit, thinking vaguely that this was his first time riding the underground where he had actually paid for a ticket rather than merely jumping the style when no one was looking. He elected not to mention this to Remus.

"Where are we going?" he asked, slightly irritated at being led around everywhere with no explanation.

"To get you some Muggle clothes," Remus said distractedly as he frowned between the posted map of the underground and the signs directing toward the different lines.

"This way," he repeated, finally deciding on the tracks for the District and Circle Lines.

Harry was about to ask another question, but as they reached the platform, they noticed that the train for the Circle Line was already there, and they had to run to jump on before the doors closed. After that, Remus spent some time analyzing the map some more, as he seemed excessively concerned that they had gotten on a train going the wrong direction. Harry thought it best not to disrupt him.

Harry perked up as Remus instructed him off at Liverpool Street. This was near about his neighbourhood. They headed east out of the station, however, and Harry grumbled, slightly disappointed.

Taking a right on to Finsbury Pavement, Harry paused as Remus jogged up to the large glass doors under the large green lettering spelling out the words **MARKS & SPENCER**.

"An M&S?" Harry asked sceptically.

"Why?" Remus responded, pausing with the door partially open and glancing back at Harry. "What's wrong with it?"

"I—nothing, it's just..." Remus looked at him askance, inviting him to continue. "Don't you think it's a bit too...posh?"

"We're just here to pick you up a few shirts, a couple pairs of pants. Maybe a jacket or two. And you'll really only want them for the holidays. But it you'd rather...where do you usually shop?"

He looked at Harry expectantly, and Harry stared back. Him? Shop? A moment later he realised his mouth was slightly open, and he closed it sharply. "It doesn't matter. It's fine," he said after a time. He brushed past Remus and entered the store, leaving a rather bewildered Remus behind him.

The store was huge, housing everything a person could ever need. Someone with money, anyway. _Which now includes me_, Harry had to remind himself. They followed the signs to the men's clothing department, and Remus immediately set to work pulling shirt after shirt off of the rack and throwing them to Harry: t-shirts, sweatshirts, polo shirts, long-sleeved, short-sleeved, striped, plaid, plain, button-up. Harry was quickly laden with more shirts than he had had in his life.

"Why don't you go try those on. See which you like," said Remus, nodding in the direction of the fitting rooms. "I'll go find you some trousers."

Harry stumbled to the fitting room and began sorting the shirts into piles according to the styles and colours he liked and how well they fit. He was about halfway through the pile when Remus tossed a stack of jeans and slacks over the door, followed swiftly by a jacket and a warm winter coat.

All in all, it was over an hour later that the pair stumbled out of the store, loaded down with shopping bags. Remus paused outside the doors and looked around.

"Now then. What else do you need?"

But Harry did not answer. He was distracted by a very familiar form walking down the opposite side of the street. A large and pudgy man with greasy black hair combed in a struggle to hide a fast-receding hairline.

"Mr. Bernards!"

* * *

**A/N: ** Opps. I ended up splitting this chapter in half again…I always misjudge how much time and space it will take me to say what I want. I found this chapter incredibly boring to write so I can only assume that it was incredibly boring for you to read. So I apologise. It really was just straight out of _The Philosopher's Stone_, so I got pretty sick of repeating everything. And it might have something to do with the fact that, contrary to most girls my age, I hate shopping. The next one should be marginally more interesting from a characterization standpoint, though. I'm afraid this is a bit of a slow part of the story; most of the action won't come for a little while yet. Anyway, thanks for all the well-wishes on my trip; it was most enjoyable, though I'm happy to be home. Hopefully updates will be able to come more frequently now. Thanks all for reading, and please review!


	10. 9 Erased

**Chapter 9  
Erased**

"**Mr. Bernards!" **he called again as he ran across the street to catch up to his old employer.

A car had to slam on the brakes and Remus shouted "Harry!" from somewhere behind him, but he paid them no mind.

"Mr. B!" he said, breathlessly as he skidded to a halt in front of the man. He smiled. There was nothing he needed more at that moment than to see a familiar, friendly face, and Mr. Bernards had been almost like family to him for the past year.

But Jack Bernards did not smile back. Instead, he gave Harry a very odd, rather alarmed look. He had not the faintest look of recognition on his face as he said, "'Scuse," softly, making as if to sidestep around the boy who had just cut him off. Harry, however, was having none of it. He stepped in front of him again.

"Mr. B, it's me, Har—Liam."

"Oh, er...'course. I 'member ye now," said Mr. Bernards, in a way that said very clearly that he didn't. "Bin a while, 'asn't it?" Harry was quite speechless at this; he hardly considered two days to be 'a while.' "Now, if'n you'll 'scuse me," Mr. Bernards said without waiting for a response, "in a bit o' an 'urry." He walked around Harry again, who this time, merely stood motionless, utterly confounded. "Nice ter see ye again, Harlam," Mr. Bernards called over his shoulder, giving the peculiar boy one more baffled look.

"It's Liam," Harry managed, though Mr. Bernards was striding away too fast to have heard it.

Harry stood there, stock still, staring after the only man he had ever been even remotely close to over the course of his entire existence.

"For Merlin's sake, Harry, can't you at least look both ways before racing across a street? You nearly gave both me and that driver a heart attack apiece."

"He didn't recognise me," Harry said, numbly staring after Mr. Bernards, not sure whether he was talking to Remus or to himself. Remus turned his head to look after the man striding away from them too.

"Who was that?" he asked, puzzled.

Harry blinked, coming out of his reverie. He looked at Remus, then back at Mr. B. "Mr. Bernards," he said finally. He's been my employer for the past year. And he didn't even recognise me."

"Oh." Remus let out a sigh and closed his eyes. 'Oh.' It was all he had said. But it spoke volumes.

"'Oh'? What do you mean, 'oh'?" Harry asked, turning angrily back to Remus. "That man was the closest thing I had to family and suddenly he doesn't even know who I am, and all you have to say is '_oh_'? What the hell is going? There's something you're not telling me! Don't try to deny it; I'm not an idiot!" By this time Harry was shouting, and passersby were starting to look their way.

"Alright. Calm down. You're right." Remus spoke in a whisper as though by lowering his voice it would cancel out the volume of Harry's. "There are a lot of things I have to tell you. Things I should have talked to you about before ever coming to London. But we'll talk about them at home, okay?"

"NO! Not. Okay. You're going to tell me what's going on, and you're going to tell me _right now_!"

"Okay. Okay," Remus said soothingly, holding his hands up in surrender. "Just lower your voice. Please."

Harry drew in a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. He glared at Remus expectantly. Remus was silent for a moment as though collecting his thoughts. Harry was getting annoyed.

"He's been obliviated." When Harry's glare remained unchanged, Remus clarified. "It's common Ministry procedure. They modified his memory—removed all traces of you from his brain. He didn't recognise you because, as far as he's concerned, you never existed." He said this haltingly, warily.

Throughout this explanation, Harry felt his face changing. By the end of it, the fury had been replaced by austerity.

"'Common Ministry procedure'?" he repeated dazedly.

Remus shifted into what Harry had recently dubbed, his 'lecture-mode'. "The Ministry of Magic's main function is to keep the existence of the wizarding world from the Muggles. Witches and wizards have a long history of persecution and manipulation at the hands of non-magical people. The wizarding government exists to protect its subjects from the Muggles, whether they be trying to burn us at the stake or just annoying us by begging us to solve all of their problems with magic."

"What does this have to do with Mr. Bernards?" Harry asked, grinding his teeth

"Harry. No Muggles are supposed to know anything about the wizarding world, except in very special circumstances. Any Muggles that have contact with wizards have their memories modified so that they remember nothing about it. In your case, a wizard living among Muggles, it would be customary to erase any sign that you existed."

Harry stood there for a moment, staring down the street down which Mr. B had disappeared with eyes focused on nothing. Remus's words were ringing in his ears. _Erase any sign_.

Harry wasn't aware of deciding to do it. He wasn't even aware of having considered it. But next he knew he was flying down the street heading east. He was running as fast as was humanly possible, scarcely aware of the stitch forming in his side or the aching of his legs or the burning in his lungs as they struggled to bring in enough oxygen. He kept running. A train was passing overhead as he crossed beneath the railroad on Valance Street, and the sound was deafening. He kept running. He stumbled as his feet sank into the snow as he cut across the football pitch of Weavers Fields. He kept running. When he met up with Bethnal Green Road, people stared at him as he zipped by. He kept running.

It was not until he turned left onto Jersey Street that he stopped. His momentum carried him on until he crashed into the front door of his flat. The palm of one hand went to brace himself on the door while the other went straight for the door knob. The door didn't budge. He cursed, remembering that, in his hasty flight the previous day, he had left his key sitting on the table inside. Then he reminded himself it didn't matter.

He raised his right hand, laying his palm on the deadbolt. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes as he felt a warmth travelling from his hand into the metal. A heartbeat later, the lock clicked. He opened his eyes, pushed the door open...and the world stopped.

He stumbled into the room, his chest heaving, whether from the run or from emotion he did not know. He looked around feeling complete and utter despair. He made his way drunkenly to the bathroom and poked his head inside. Not so much as a toothbrush. Everything had been cleared out. He staggered to the kitchenette and pulled out drawer after drawer, opened cupboard after cupboard, desperately hoping that one small scrap would have been left. An old piece of clothing, a book, a stale box of biscuits. Anything. There were not even marks in the carpet where his mouldy old couch had once sat.

This reminded Harry of something. He whipped around and dropped to his hands and knees next to the counter where the kitchenette met the living room. Face inches from the carpet he searched, running his hands through the shag. And there it was. It was faint. Just a slight pinkish tinge to the carpet in one spot. Harry remembered how angry he had been with himself when he had spilt that glass of juice just days after having first moved into this apartment—the apartment he had been so proud of himself for being able to afford. He had hated that stain. And now he clung to it like a drowning man to a life-preserver.

He fingered that spot lovingly; ran his hands across the carpet, praying that discolouration lasted forever. That there would be one miniscule thing to show that he had lived. That he had made a mark, however small, on the world.

He did not know how long he sat there on the floor, reverently fingering the carpet, but that was how Remus found him.

* * *

**Remus dropped **the shopping bags and gripped the doorframe with one hand, the other going to brace himself on his knee. He gasped for breath. His chest burned with each inhalation. He couldn't remember the last time he had run like that. He was getting way too old for this.

Remus lifted his head to look at Harry who was seated on the floor, looking at nothing as far as Remus could tell. Remus lifted his head and looked around. The room was empty. There was no furniture, no personal effects. Was there anything so depressing as an empty room?

Though, in all fairness, Remus figured that this flat would have been depressing at the best of times. It comprised of one small room with a miniscule adjoining kitchen, separated only by a counter. Off of the kitchen was a door that Remus assumed led to the loo. The only light in the room was coming dully from the two small windows. The security bars left striped patterns where the squares of light hit the floor.

This is what Harry was so keen to get back to?

That wasn't fair, and Remus knew it. For Harry, this wasn't a matter of which life offered him better opportunities, better living conditions. It was a matter of which life would offer him independence—which would leave him to be his own man. And as Remus looked around, he realised they had effectively erased the one that would. He wandered if Fudge had taken special interest to be sure that, in the end, Harry would only have one life left to choose from: the life _Fudge _had planned for him.

"Harry," he said very quietly. There was silence. Harry did not look up at him; he just sat with his back to him, running his fingers over the carpet again and again. "Harry," Remus tried again. "I am so sorry." Silence. "I never meant for this to happen. I swear it. If it had even occurred to me that they might...I would have done everything in my power to stop this from taking place."

After a pause, a soft voice, completely devoid of emotion arose. "Erased. Like a writer erases a misspelling in his book. Or an architect erases a structure on a blueprint that could be unsafe. Or an artist erases a line that didn't go just the way he wanted it to. Once it's erased, no one ever knows or cares that it was ever there in the first place. No one who looks at it can see that there was ever a mistake—that there was once something else there. Something that wasn't meant to be."

There was a long silence. Remus felt his heart breaking as he listened to this. He felt his face crumpling and moisture prickling at his eyes, but he could not tear his horrified gaze from the boy sitting dejectedly before him.

"But the writer and the artist. _They _get to decide what is wrong. They get to decide what to delete and what to keep. Who is it who gets to decide whether or not a life is worth continuing? Not the person living it, apparently. So who?"

Finally Harry turned to look at Remus. His face was a frighteningly blank mask, but there seemed to be a question deep in his eyes. "I just don't understand." His voice was a whisper so low, Remus could barely hear it, but it made his heart shatter.

Remus couldn't restrain himself at that point. He crossed the room in two steps, knelt beside the boy, and pulled him into his arms. Harry did not return the embrace, but he did not try to pull away either; Remus took this as a mark of just how distressed the child was.

Remus was not sure how long they sat there, his arms around the boy's shoulders, chin resting on his head, Harry's cheek on his clavicle. Harry's body felt stiff and unresponsive in his arms. Remus ran a hand soothingly through the hair at the nape of the boy's neck.

"I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry, Harry." He repeated the words over and over hoping the boy would believe them. He knew the words were inadequate, but he could not think what else to say. What other explanations to offer.

"I just don't understand," Harry repeated. Then he shifted so that his face was buried in Remus's chest and said in a muffled voice, "Why did all this have to happen?"

Remus knew it was a rhetorical question—knew Harry did not just mean the removal of his existence from the places and minds who once knew him—but he tried to answer what he could. His voice betrayed his bitterness as, thinking about his own life as well as Harry's, he said, "The Ministry—or any government for that matter—they just don't think about the individual. They focus on what they think is best for the majority, and the result is that sometimes people get hurt along the way. What's one life to them, in the grand scheme of things?"

"But it was _my_ life."

Harry's voice was an octave too high, choked, and so miserable that a tear won its battle and began to slide slowly down Remus's cheek. "I think, perhaps, the fact that it was _your _life made it all the more pressing as far as the Ministry was concerned."

There was a pause before Harry drew back and looked Remus in the eye, searchingly.

"What do you mean?"

Remus drew in a breath to speak, but in the end, just let it out in a sigh. So they had come to it, at last.

* * *

**Harry didn't **like the way Remus had said that. His tone seemed to be saying something more than his words.

"What do you mean?" he repeated, more importunately this time.

"Simply that yours is...a special situation. They will be particularly careful with your case given that it is so..." Remus seemed to search for the right word, "...high profile," he finally decided.

Harry pulled back further, frowning. "What do you mean?" he asked for the third time. "What's so 'special' about me? Why is this 'high profile'?"

It was Remus's turn to frown. He let his hands drop from where they rested on the boys shoulders and looked at Harry contemplatively. "Harry. Tell me what you know about your parents."

Harry's eyes widened at the abrupt change in topic and then narrowed suspiciously. He shrugged and shook his head slightly. "Only that they were killed in a car accident—driving drunk—when I was a year old."

Remus's jaw dropped. And then he looked angry. Very angry. His chest heaved and his nostrils flared as his breathing quickened. His eyebrows drew down in a sharp line and his teeth clenched together. Harry decided to draw back further.

"What?" Remus asked, his voice low and dangerous. Harry swallowed and tried to understand what had made Remus so angry, but he said nothing. "A car accident?" Remus repeated a little louder this time. "Who told you that?" he demanded.

Harry's heart rate had sped up, his breathing was deep and fast as long-suppressed memories clawed their way to the forefront of his brain. He stared at the irate man with wide eyes before answering, very quietly, "Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon."

Remus looked back into Harry's alarmed eyes, and a frown creased his brow. He let out a sigh, head falling into his hands. One hand pinched the bridge of his nose while the other brushed back to comb the greying hair back from his face. After a moment, he dropped his hands, head rolling back to stare at the ceiling as he let out a loud breath. Visibly calmed, he looked back at Harry, eyes very serious.

"That was a lie Harry." There was silence in the room. Harry's brain was not working well enough to think up a response to that. He felt numb. "Your parents didn't die in a car accident and they certainly weren't drunk. Your parents were...they were..." Remus seemed to struggle to say the word, so Harry helped him out.

"Murdered," Harry said quietly, somehow he could not explain, knowing it was true. Remus, looking taken aback and disturbed, nodded slowly, his eyes wide and brimming with tears. But Harry's was not looking at him. He stared at the far wall, his eyes slipping out of focus. Memories were floating back to him from many different occasions across his life.

He remembered Remus speaking in the interrogation room: "His parents were murdered when he was barely a year old. He was sent to live with his aunt and uncle..."

He remembered listening to his aunt and uncle talking from the other side of the locked cupboard door after his hair had magically re-grown itself when he was seven: "You see, Vernon? He's just like his freak parents. And he's going the same way as them, just you wait and see. He'll be getting himself blown up in no time, and taking our house down with him, I don't doubt."

He remembered the odd looks he had gotten from people that morning in Diagon Alley. The cryptic words of Mr. Ollivander as he explained that his wand's brother had been responsible for the scar on his forehead. Harry's hand went up to finger the lightning-shaped scar as the old man's words echoed in his head: "I think we can expect great things from you, Mr. Potter...After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things—terrible, yes, but great."

He remembered something he had not thought of for some time. He had always supposed it had been a memory of the car crash, but now, looking at it with fresh eyes, he realised how wrong he had been. He remembered a blindingly bright, green light. A light followed by pain.

"Green light," he muttered more to himself, continuing to finger the scar on his forehead. He heard Remus's breath catch. He turned to the older man, who was looking more disturbed than ever, and asked in a voice made calm by numbness, "They were frea—wizards? My mum and dad?" At Remus's nod, he continued, "And the man who killed them?" Harry knew it was a man. He could not say how, but he knew it beyond any shadow of doubt.

"Him too," said Remus softly. "A very evil wizard, deeply ensconced in the Dark Arts. His name was Voldemort."

And then Harry remembered something else—something he had never remembered before, but something so clear, he knew he could not have invented it. He remembered a high-pitched, cruel laugh.

After some silence, in which Harry had gone back to staring into space, Remus cleared his throat, eyes haunted, and asked quietly, "You remember it?"

Harry shook his head. "No," he said but then shrugged. "Maybe. I don't know."

There was silence again as Remus continued to stare at Harry and Harry continued to stare at nothing. Finally Harry seemed to come out of a reverie. "There's still so much I don't understand. And how my parents' death relates to...all this," he finished, gesturing to the emptied room. He looked at Remus and said, very seriously, "I need to know. I need to know everything."

Remus looked at him sadly, heaved a sigh, looked down at his own hands which were entwined in his lap, and then, slowly, nodded his head.

* * *

**Remus sat** there for a moment, collecting his thoughts. He had not expected this. He had assumed that Harry knew _something _of his history, if not all. When Dumbledore had first left Harry at the Dursleys, he had told Remus that he had left instructions that Petunia tell the boy everything once he was old enough. Why she would take it upon herself to invent such a story, Remus could not understand—and one so openly offensive to her sister's memory, at that. Remus was still fuming. _Drunk driving, indeed._

Remus looked up at Harry who was staring at him expectantly, his jaw set in a determined line that reminded Remus forcibly of Lily. Remus drew a deep breath to prepare himself and, electing to fix his eyes back on his hands, began the narrative.

"The 70s were a very dark time. Voldemort, who was later considered one of the darkest wizards of all time, emerged and began to seek out followers—witches and wizards who were eager to share in the power he was steadily gaining. He called them Death Eaters. They believed in the purification of the Wizarding World. In other words, they felt that magic should be kept within entirely wizarding families, or Pure Bloods. They did terrible things: torturing and murdering Muggles and anyone they considered a Muggle-sympathiser. For the next eleven years, Voldemort's power and influence stretched wider and wider.

"But there were those who resisted him. Soon, it had developed into a full-fledged war. When we had finished school, your parents and I and a few of our other...friends...joined The Order of the Phoenix. It was a secret organization formed by Dumbledore to combat Voldemort's uprising.

"About a year later, you were born." He Remus paused and looked up into Harry's eyes. The boy was staring at him, straight-backed, soaking in the information with an unreadable face. "It was the happiest day of your parents' lives. I had never seen them so perfectly blissful as they were that day."

He looked back at his hands and tried to remember where he had been. "Not long after that, Dumbledore got wind that Voldemort was targeting your family. Your parents elected to go into hiding to keep you safe." He stumbled here, unsure of what all he should tell Harry. Finally, he decided the details of Sirius Black were not important; the man was in Azkaban and would die there. Harry need never know anything about him. "Unfortunately there was a double agent in the Order, and he betrayed your parents whereabouts to Voldemort. Not long after, Voldemort went to your house and murdered your mother and father.

Here Remus paused again, thinking. "Up to this point, everything I have told you is verifiable fact. But as to what happened after that, the only account I can give you is built upon supposition and inference. No one truly understands what happened. Shortly after your parents' death, I spoke to Dumbledore on the subject, and I will tell you what he told me, because his suppositions are worth ten of my convictions.

"After Voldemort killed your mother and father, he tried to kill you, but he...couldn't," Remus said lamely.

"'Couldn't'?" Harry repeated. "What? You mean his conscience wouldn't let him or something?"

Remus was not at all sure how to explain this. He looked away uncomfortably for a moment. "No. I mean, he couldn't...physically. He tried. He fired a Killing Curse—a curse no one has ever lived through, no one has ever blocked—but it didn't work. No one really knows why, but you—an innocent, defenceless baby—survived something said to be impossible. Not only that, but when Voldemort's curse failed, it rebounded upon himself. He all but died that night."

"'_All but_ died'? So he's still alive?"

"Yes, I believe so. Dumbledore certainly expects him to return someday. According to him, the curse stripped him of all his powers, even his corporeal body, but his spirit endures. Dumbledore thinks that he is simply waiting until an opportunity presents itself for him to regain his strength. When it does, I expect we'll be right back where we started. Perhaps a little more prepared, I hope."

"I don't get it. How did I survive? If it's supposed to be impossible...?" Harry shook his head, frowning in incomprehension.

"Again, I can only give you Dumbledore's theories. According to him, your mother died to save you and in that act, activated a very old magic that Voldemort does not understand and consequently was unprepared for. Your mother's love saved your life. And garnished you with no little fame and the rather ostentatious nick name of, The Boy Who Lived," Remus added, wryly, as an afterthought.

Silence reigned for the next few minutes. Remus watched Harry quietly as he took it all in. "So I'm like...some kind of wizarding celebrity? All because of something my mother did. Something I don't even remember." Remus couldn't think of a response to this, but luckily, Harry didn't seem to require one, because he barely paused before continuing. "And you didn't think I might need to know all this sooner?" Most unfortunately, Harry did seem willing to wait for an answer to this one.

Remus cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I was...stupid," he admitted finally. "I didn't think things through before bringing you here. I should have talked about all this with you before coming. But I had expected you to already know more than you did. The Dursleys were supposed to explain it to you." For some reason, Harry looked away sharply and shifted when Remus mentioned the Dursleys. Remus frowned but continued. "And the topic just never really presented itself. I just didn't know how to bring it up, or even whether I should. I had hoped to consult with Dumbledore about some—"

"_Bloody hell!_" Remus jumped at the unexpected outburst. After the emotionless expression of the past half an hour, it left Remus rather shell-shocked. "What is it about you and this Dumbledore bloke? What makes him the reigning expert in all things? He's a _school teacher _for the love of God! Not the Dali Lama!" Remus bristled with affront at the insult to both his profession and his mentor. In the end, he decided to let it slide and calmly tried to explain.

"Dumbledore is a great deal more than the headmaster of Hogwarts, Harry. He's generally considered to be one of the wisest and most powerful wizards of all time. He could have been the Minister of Magic, long since, if he had wanted it. He has been an invaluable friend to me over the years. And he was very close to your family." When Harry continued to look sceptical, he added, "He's a good man, Harry. He really does want to help you. I wish you could believe that."

"I can't believe anything anymore." The voice was so flat and he had gone back to fingering the carpet. Remus found himself wishing he would go back to yelling. Remus looked at him sorrowfully, racking his brain for something comforting to say, but nothing presented itself.

Presently, Harry looked up from the floor and gazed around the room with a wretchedness in his eyes that Remus could hardly bear. Harry's eyes fell in certain areas around the bare room before they came to rest on Remus. Looking the older man straight in the eyes, Harry said, very seriously, "Can we leave now?"

Remus opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out. Instead, he merely nodded his head. He got to his feet and extended his hand to help Harry up. Harry elected to ignore it and rose of his own accord. Remus began to explain Apparition to the boy, but Harry interrupted him, saying he'd done it before. In the end, Remus merely collected the shopping bags, instructed Harry to take hold of his arm, and disapparated with a pop.

Once Remus had opened the front door, Harry brushed past him and made his way up the steps. "Harry," Remus called after him, not sure what he wanted to say. Harry paused halfway up the staircase and turned. Remus made to follow him, but Harry stopped him with a look.

"I _really_ need to be alone right now," he said, with quiet frigidity. And leaving a hurt and useless-feeling Remus at the bottom of the stairs, he turned and jogged up to his room. Remus closed his eyes as tears threatened to fall and listened to the boy's retreating footsteps. Even expecting it as he was, he could not stop the flinch that escaped at the sound of the bedroom door slamming.

* * *

**Harry rested** his forehead against the cool glass of the window next to his bed. He didn't know what to feel. He didn't know_ how _to feel. There were so many thoughts and emotions warring for dominance within his brain, he thought it could only lead to insanity. He pulled back and banged his head against the glass with a dull thud. It felt unprecedentedly satisfying.

He stood there for a time, mentally trying to organise all the things that he had learned that day, both from what Remus had told him about his past and what he had observed in Diagon Alley. _ Famous? And for something that killed my mum and dad?_ He felt dirty.

Pulling back abruptly, he made his way to the bathroom. He stripped off his clothes and turned the shower on as hot as it would go. His breathing quickened and he gritted his teeth as he inched into the scalding water. After a minute, his body adjusted and his muscles began to relax. Bracing his palms on the wall, he stood directly under the shower head, eyes shut tight and breathing heavily through his mouth as water cascaded down his face. There was so much moisture in the air, his chest was heaving with the effort of extracting the necessary oxygen, and his skin was turning red from the heat. All thought slipped from his mind. Most unfortunately, emotion didn't follow suit.

Tears were mingling with the water on his face. They were the first self-pitying tears he could ever remember shedding, and, at that moment, he resolved that they would be his last. No one would ever see them. No one would ever know. The shower would wash away all evidence. They would be added to his ever-growing list of secrets.

* * *

**A/N: **Grrr. Another chapter I'm unsatisfied with. But ah, well. I'm losing patience with it, so I'll just go ahead and post it. Maybe you'll take more pleasure in reading it than I did in writing it. New poll up on my profile; check it out. I'm very curious to see how people will vote.

Next chapter: Harry makes an unexpected friend and an important decision.

PS. Can someone explain to me why sometimes my page break will show up fine and other times they all disappear? It's really starting to piss me off. Is it something I'm doing or is the site just stupid?


	11. 10 The Slings and Arrows

**Chapter 10  
The Slings and Arrows of Outrageous Fortune**

**When Harry **returned to his bedroom, still dripping with water and with a towel securely tied around his waist, he found that Remus had brought his shopping up. An old-fashioned trunk was situated at the foot of his bed, and lifting the lid revealed all of the things they had bought in Diagon Alley to get him through the remainder of the school year. The closet door was open, and inside, Harry could see that Remus had hung the non-magical clothing they had bought at M&S.

Harry stood there for a moment, looking between the trunk and the closet. In the end, he walked over to the closet and ran his fingers along the clothes inside, thinking. After a bit, he extracted the simplest outfit he could find, a plain, dark red t-shirt and a pair of jeans, and slipped them on.

_Now what?_He sighed, looking around the room. He needed time to think, but a buzzing was filling his head, and he couldn't seem to concentrate. He flopped down on the bed with an aggravated sigh and his arm fell over his eyes. He lay like that, perfectly still, hoping that unconsciousness would take over, and he would be free from having to consider this ridiculous situation, free from having to make a decision; there would be no going back, and he wished to procrastinate on that for as long as possible.

But his mind would not switch off. He was filled with a restless energy. And so it was that five minutes later he was hauling himself upright with a frustrated growl. He stood at the window with his hands resting on the sill looking out over the Downs. Abruptly he came to a decision.

Harry walked purposefully over to the closet and pulled out a pair of overly clean and glossy trainers. Roughly snatching his new Mac off a hanger, he pulled it on and tugged the zipper up practically to his chin. He felt a price tag hanging at his wrist and tore it off, snorting at the little numbers declaring it to be worth £60. He needed to get away from here, if only for a bit. He could not make any decisions here. He didn't know what to do, and standing in this room was making it even harder. He needed to find neutral ground.

He looked around the room. A part of him knew that there was a chance he would not come back to it. If he decided to cut and run, he needed to be sure that he had everything he needed with him. But what did he need? He had come to this place with nothing. He knew how to manage with nothing. He had done so many times before and would do so many times again. Perhaps he had more now than previous times. The clothes on his back at this moment were worth a full month's rent. An outfit for his entire existence? Hardly a fair trade, but it was all he was going to get.

He made his way determinedly to the door, but paused with his hand on the knob. Something was calling to him. Not letting him go. It was a feeling such that he had felt only once before: in Mr. Ollivander's wand shop. But the feeling was dull this time. Dull and less...joyous.

He turned around, slowly raking his eyes across the room. They fell on the trunk. He walked over slowly and opened the lid almost cautiously. There, lying very innocently on top of a set of neatly folded black robes, was a simple, eleven-inch-long piece of wood. Harry snaked out a finger to reverently touch it, and, immediately, he was filled with that tingling warmth, that strange sense of rightness.

After a moment's indecision, he whipped it up and slid it into the pocket of his coat. He would decide what to do about that later, as well.

* * *

**Remus had** seated himself on the divan in the sitting room, his head in his hands. He had really made a mess of this. But he didn't know what else he could have done. Was there any _right_ way to go about all this? He wished he had had time to consort with Dumbledore beforehand; Harry was clearly torn up about it, and Remus feared he had done irreparable damage with his blundering.

Abruptly, Remus became aware of quick footsteps coming down the stairs. Remus sprang up and went to the door to meet Harry, hopeful that the boy would be more amenable to talking now that he had had some time to think.

"Harry—" he began, but the boy completely ignored him and went to pull open the front door. "Wha—Wait! Where are you going?" Remus spluttered.

"For a walk," Harry spat out in a voice so harsh it made Remus's eyes widen.

"Wait!" Remus rushed after him as he made to step out of the door. He grabbed the boy by the wrist, saying, "You can't just go wandering—" But that was as far as he got.

Harry had whipped around so fast, Remus would not have believed it possible. He lashed his right hand up, out of Remus's grip and held it palm forward before his chest.

Remus froze. It was a feeling such that he had never felt before. He could not move so much as a fraction of a centimetre. His jaw clamped shut, knees and elbows locked, head snapped back, his eyes wide and horrified. Every muscle in his body contracted so tightly it ached. _Every muscle_. His intercostals were burning with the futile effort of expanding his chest cavity to draw air into his lungs. He couldn't breathe.

He did not know how long they stood there. What was probably seconds felt like hours to his suffocating brain. After a short time, however, Harry spoke, and Remus could do nothing but listen.

"I told you, I need to be alone," Harry said, very slowly and clearly in a voice so cold it gave Remus shivers. Or at least it would have, had Remus been able to shiver. "I am going for a walk and will return later. Do not try to follow me."

Harry was silent for a moment, looking Remus in the eye with a terrifying, blank mask. Remus was beginning to feel lightheaded as his brain was deprived of oxygen. Just when he felt sure he was about to lose consciousness, Harry dropped his hand and turned away, disappearing out the door. Instantaneously, the spell was lifted.

Remus crumpled to the floor, falling on all fours, coughing and gasping desperately for breath. His entire body was shaking uncontrollably, and he felt moisture prickling at his eyes as his heart raced, the pulse echoing in his ears.

Once he had maintained some semblance of control over his body, Remus looked up toward the door. It was standing open, waving slightly in the breeze. He scrambled to his feet, coughing into his shoulder as he did so, and stumbled to the door. He looked around desperately, but Harry was already lost from view.

Remus made to follow but stopped and turned back into the house. After only a few steps however, he turned around again and walked purposefully toward the door. He repeated this action several times before it turned into full-out pacing.

He didn't know what to do. Harry needed time. Remus understood that. He had given the boy a great deal of information to process; it was natural that Harry should want to get away to think for a bit. But all the same, he couldn't just let Harry go where he pleased. He was the Boy Who Lived, for Merlin's sake. Any remaining Death Eaters would have heard about his reappearance in the wizarding world by now, and it stood to reason that they could be looking for him. And what if Harry decided to run? He would be entirely unprotected. Fudge would throw a fit and it would be he and Dumbledore who would have to bear the effects of it.

No. It was more than that. When Remus was honest with himself, he knew most of his anxiety was for himself. It was selfish, but the truth of the matter was, Remus couldn't bear to lose him. For the past thirteen years, Remus had lived without Harry; he had managed to tell himself that life goes on, that he needed to let it go. But now that he had found the boy again, had tasted what life could be like with him in it, Remus couldn't let it go. If Harry left of his own volition, Remus didn't think he could stand the rejection. If he left of someone else's volition, Remus didn't think he could stand the guilt.

He paced across the floor, indecision grating on his mind. One hour. He would give the boy one hour. If he wasn't back by then, Remus would just have to go after him.

Of course, that decision hardly meant that he didn't intend to pace and agonise for the entirety of that hour.

* * *

**To go. To **stay.

Harry wasn't entirely sure where he was. He had started heading south on the tree-lined lane that led down from the house, but it had gradually dwindled to little more than a path. He knew this meant that he was probably headed in the wrong direction if he hoped to meet with civilization and escape, but he decided he didn't care; at that moment, he just wanted to be as far away from all other people as possible. He could teleport in the direction of a town when and if he decided to leave. He wished he had figured out how to teleport long distances like Remus did, but he had never managed more than a kilometre or two. There were many things he'd like to learn from Remus.

_No. Stop thinking like that. He lied to you. These freaks have all proven themselves the same. They just want to control you. Keep you under their collective thumbs. A promise means nothing to them. What makes you think Remus is any different? You think he'll really do all he said he would? Teach you? Let you leave in six months? Care for you? Care _about_you? If he can't keep his word now, what makes you think he will later?_

But Remus didn't feel like a liar. Harry had to admit that Remus had been kind to him. He had offered him a comfortable home, more food than he could have dreamed of. He had been patient, gentle. Harry was beginning to believe that he actually _liked_ the man. Moreover, Harry felt that—dare he think it—Remus might actually like _him_.

There was just so much that Harry wanted to know—things that Remus could teach him. He wanted to know about magic. As cruel as the magical world felt, Harry could not deny that he was fascinated by it. Diagon Alley had been this tantalising taste of all the incredible things he could see and do. More than he could ever have imagined when he first discovered his...abnormality.

And there were other things that Harry wanted to know—things about his family. Who was better qualified to tell Harry about his parents than their best friend? And if this Voldemort bloke was as bad as Remus said, surely there would books about him, about what happened that night. Harry needed to know more. Just thinking about it all filled Harry's stomach with a bitter rage he had never felt before. All of the problems in his life stemmed from this man, and Harry wanted to make him regret it.

The path had forked a while back. Harry had chosen the west fork. The other seemed to head out to run along the cliff edge to the south. It had felt too open. From there, anyone could see him, even from a distance, and he was in no mood to be seen. The path had taken him to a grove of trees in the lower ground between hills. It seemed very private in there.

Harry heard his footsteps crunching on the frost-covered leaves littering the ground. The path twisted and turned through a black and white landscape of close-set trees. Their limbs reached out, and crossed over his head skeletally, black against the whiteness of the snow and the sky, devoid of all foliage save for a few stray leaves that had failed to drop before the abrupt freeze had locked them into place, frozen in space and time. In the spring, Harry reckoned this place would be beautiful: green and lush. But now, it looked like something out of a Tim Burton film: dark and surreal.

Light broke through in straight shafts from time to time, dazzling the frost clinging to the branches it hit while throwing its surroundings in to an even deeper gloom. Harry kicked a stone and it went skipping off the path into the underbrush. The sound it made rang eerily in the silence. What the hell was he doing here?

Everything that had happened in the past few days was just mad. This life was a polar opposite to the one he had had before. He wanted to go home. _But it doesn't exist anymore_, he reminded himself. _There's nothing you can do to change that. Missing it won't do any good. _A part of him wanted to leave for no better reason that to spite the Ministry for what they had done. The fact that they wanted him was reason enough for him to go. To run away and never come back. Somewhere they would never find him. Hell, he would even go to America if he thought it would keep them off his backs.

He was angry. More angry than he could ever remember being. Angry at the Ministry, angry at the man who killed his parents, angry at himself. They took everything from him: his home, his friends, even his freedom. _And for what?_Harry still didn't truly understand the answer to that question. What do these people want from me? He hated being controlled, hated being forced to depend on other people, forced to break rule number two. Well, what did it matter? Rules one and three were already shattered. Might as well go for broke.

No. Harry could not stay here. However comfortable and easy they wanted to make this world appear, it was all a lie. There was a darkness to it all—a callousness, a ruthlessness that Harry did not, could not, understand. It wasn't logical. It didn't follow the laws of life. In his world, everything made sense: You work, you get money, you eat. Plain and simple. Here, it was all backwards, artificial.

_That's what magic is_, Harry decided. _Artifice. There's a reason they call them magic tricks_. Magic was only ever used for bad. It was only used for selfish purposes: to control people, to destroy lives. No, there was no good to be done with magic.

At that moment an ear splitting scream split the air. Harry jumped and whipped around scanning between trees frantically. He saw nothing breaking up the blackness of the trees, the white of the snow, the shafts of light. Silence. No sooner had he thought this than a soft, rhythmic thumping sound floated toward him, gradually getting louder. Harry searched through the forest, heart pounding, turning full circle, but he was unable to pinpoint the source of the noise. It was soon accompanied by the cracking of twigs and branches somewhere above him. He jerked his head up to see a half grey, half white blur rocket toward his head. He ducked just in time. Raising and turning, he watched as it crashed five metres off the path to his right, splitting an old decaying log with the force of it.

Harry squinted at the place agitatedly, trying to make out what was going on. Dust and feathers were flying everywhere. The frantic rustling and screeching filled the woods. Half a moment later, Harry realised what was happening, and before he could even think about what he was doing, his feet were bringing him forward.

The peregrine falcon was perched on top of the struggling white mass. Its beak and talons were glinting red as it dug viciously into its prey. The snowy owl below was slowing down. The scarlet contrasted spectacularly with the white of its feathers and the frosty ground beneath.

Harry really didn't think. The fact that he could lose an eye barely crossed his mind as he moved forward.

"STOP!" he shouted, stupidly. He didn't expect the falcon to pay him much heed, but at that moment, all he knew was that he could not bear to see this creature victimised. He knew it was the way of the world. Knew that the falcon needed to eat to survive. Knew that even if he saved this owl, the falcon would merely turn around and find some other unlucky animal to feed on. But all the same, he found he could not bear to stand by and do nothing.

And so he moved toward the pair of raptors, his hand reaching forward of its own volition, and a brilliant blue light shot from his fingertips. The peregrine let forth an ear-splitting shriek of pain and fury and shot away. Breathing hard with an unexplained emotion, Harry watched as the bird took flight, its wings producing a soft _thump thump thump_ as they beat the air in an attempted to get high enough to clear the trees.

A quiet scuffling brought Harry's attention back to the owl beside him. He took the last few steps over and knelt before it. It looked at him with round, amber eyes; it did not seem frightened any longer, but there was something that looked to Harry like sorrow there. The bird stumbled a few steps, struggling to rise to its feet before flopping down on the frozen ground.

Harry's eyes travelled down. The blood was everywhere. It seemed to be concentrated at her neck where it bubbled forth like some gruesome spring with each beat of the heart. One wing lay at an awkward angle at its side and deep gashes ran across its breast. He watched the bird's chest rise and fall as it struggled to breath. Harry could not explain why, but he felt tears threatening to fall from his eyes.

Harry leaned down over the bird and she looked up him. Perhaps he was anthropomorphising it, but he thought he saw something that resembled trust in its expression. He swallowed nervously. This was not something he was good at. He'd made a mess of this a time or two over the years, but at this point, a failure was no worse than doing nothing.

Cupping his hand lightly, he placed it gently over the place where blood was spurting from the owl's neck. A golden light was glowing from between his fingers. He felt, rather than saw, the light spreading, seeping into the bird's flesh. _Stop the bleeding_, Harry thought. That much he could do. It was something he had done many times before. He willed the platelets to congregate, to plug the tear in the wall of the blood vessel, willed the blood to clot. He removed his hand. Blood was still oozing here and there, but the torrent shooting forth was stilled. So far so good.

Now the part he wasn't so good at: closing the skin. He had never managed this successfully. He had tried once a few years back and had ended up essentially melting the skin back into place; the resultant burns had taken weeks longer to heal than the cut would have. Since then he had developed a kind of block to it. He looked at the owls face. Its eyes were drifting tiredly open and closed. The flesh around its eyes and beak had developed a pale greyish ting. Harry took a deep breath.

He took both hands this time and moved them together, palm down, fingers extended, over the wound as though to meld the torn flesh back together. The two ragged edges of the gash twitched briefly towards each other before falling back into place. Harry growled in frustration. He shifted his weight to try again but a stick was poking into his leg most uncomfortably. He reached down to tear the offending item away, but his hand met with nothing.

He craned around to see where the unpleasant sensation was coming from and realised it was in fact something in the pocket of his coat. He reached in, irritated, to pull it out. He sat there for a moment starring at the wand, lying innocently in his hand. He had forgotten all about it. It sat in the palm of his hand and seemed to speak to him: _Well what are you waiting for? _Harry looked back at the owl. Its eyes closed and this time did not reopen. _I can save it_, the wand called to him. _Let me help you._

Harry's breathing was fast and deep, his heart pounding. He gripped the handle of the wand so tightly his fingers were beginning to protest. Biting his lip, he raised the wand and pointed it at the wound. He felt very foolish. Holding the tip of the wand just centimetres above, he ran it along the laceration, focusing all his thoughts into closing that wound. His eyes widened as he saw the skin knit itself back together. It still left an evident scar, but the cut looked weeks old as opposed to minutes.

He glanced excitedly up at the owl's face, a smile tentatively turning up the corner of his lips. This turned into a worried frown in an instant. Its eyes were closed, breathing shallow. After all that, he was going to lose the blasted bird anyway. Harry tossed the wand down angrily; it made red streaks where it skidded across the snow. Harry looked down at his hands and realised he was covered in blood.

No. God damn it, no. He refused to let it die. It wasn't fair. He was going to save it, even if it meant he had to do something he really didn't want to do. He got to his feet and crouched down to gently lift the fading owl into his arms. Cradling the bird to his chest, he rose. He hesitated for a moment before reaching down to pick up his wand as well. Pocketing it, he adjusted the bird in his arms before heading off down the path in the direction he'd come.

* * *

_**That's it.**_ Remus stood from the sofa where he had forcefully tried to get himself to settle. _I've had enough. I'm going after him._

Harry's hour was up and he had still not returned. Remus had spent the past fifty-nine minutes and thirty-seven seconds picturing all the terrible things that could conceivably happen to Harry out there on his own. His imagination had managed to range from Harry being murdered by Death Eaters, to running away somewhere Remus would never find him, to tripping over a root, plummeting over a cliff into the ocean where a wave crashed his head into a rock rendering him unconscious and washing him up somewhere on the other side of the English Channel in a state of amnesia where he was found by a fishermen who took him in and spent the next decade teaching him to smoke cigarettes, wear berets, and eat cheeses that smelled vaguely of sewage and had cultivated their own blue, fuzzy ecosystems . _Alright so that last possibility is a little farfetched, but that's not the point, damn it!_

He made for the door, tearing a cloak off the peg on the wall as he reached for the knob. Just at that moment, however, the door burst open and Remus found himself staring into a wide pair of green eyes. All of Remus's worst fears seemed confirmed. Harry was covered in blood. Panic seemed to travel through his veins to every cell in his body. His eyes raked over the boy as he rushed to his side, trying to take stock of his physical state. He felt his muscles relax as he realised the blood did not appear to be Harry's but rather came from the feathery white creature in his arms. Remus stared at it, wondering what on earth the boy had been getting into.

"Can you help it?" Harry's voice was soft and broken sounding. Remus looked back up to Harry's eyes; an unshed tear was caught in his eyelashes. Remus didn't know what the creature was. He didn't know whether he could help whatever it was. And he didn't know why it was so important to Harry. All he knew was that at that moment, Remus would have died to save a flobberworm if Harry had had a mind to ask him to.

"Bring it in here. Over to the light. Yes, there on the table will do." He was all business as he leaned over the bloodied and broken creature which he was then able to identify as a female snowy owl.

"What happened?" he asked as he gently parted the now-red feathers in order to examine the abrasions across the owl's chest. They were nasty, but they hardly seemed deep enough to have produced the amounts of blood that were coating both the bird and Harry.

"It was attacked by a falcon in the woods. I...there was a really bad gash on its neck. I tried to heal it, but she just...passed out."

Remus shifted his attention to the bird's neck where the red seemed to be concentrated. He found a scar running up the left side of the neck. Remus was impressed. Harry had done a good job healing it for someone who had never been taught how. An amazing job, really.

"You did well. I don't know that I could have healed it any better myself. But it looks like the carotid artery was severed. She's lost a lot of blood." Remus glanced up at Harry. The boy looked so worried and miserable, Remus felt his resolve strengthen. "Wait here with her," he said before walking quickly out of the room.

He made his way down the hall to the kitchen. Flinging open the potions cabinet door, he rummaged through vials looking for the one he needed. _Oh, com'on! Where the hell...Ah ha!_ He pulled out the blood-replenishing potion and blew off some dust. _Here's to hoping it's not expired._He glanced through the others to see if anything useful caught his eye. Catching up a pain reliever and an antibiotic, he rushed back to Harry.

Remus had absolutely no idea what kind of dosage one should use for a bird, but there really wasn't time to waste in looking it all up. He would start small and give more if it seemed necessary.

"Open her beak, Harry," he instructed, uncorking the blood-replenisher. Harry did as he was told, prying the beak open with his fingers and holding it for Remus. Remus leaned over and trickled the dark red potion down her throat. He did the same with the other two. "We'll see how she gets on with those, then," Remus said, relaxing as he turned his attention to the clearly broken wing.

A broken radius, it felt like. And she had lost quite a few of her primary feathers, and the Alula was badly ruffled. It would be a while before she flew again. He had never been good with broken bones, but he was quite sure Harry was not about to let it go until she was completely healed.

Waving his wand in a complex pattern around the wing and muttering an incantation under his breath, he felt the wing reset itself and the bones begin to heal. Well it was the best he could do. He turned to a few minor scrapes and contusions. "Episkey," he said softly and watched, satisfied, as the flesh mended itself. His efforts were rewarded here as the owl slowly fluttered her eyes open.

Harry watched all this with a serious expression. When the bird's eyes opened, Harry ran a finger gently along the side of her face with a reverential look in his eyes. The bird looked back at him in a way that reminded Remus of a faithful dog looking at his master.

Remus watched Harry silently as Harry stroked the birds head tenderly. Anything in the world was worth it just to see the contented calmness on Harry's face at that moment.

"She should be alright, now," Remus said, looking at the bird on the table. "She probably shouldn't be flying for a few days, but she'll heal."

"How do you know it's a 'she'?" Harry asked, not looking at Remus.

Remus glanced at him before explaining, "The colouring. She has that dark coloured scalloping. Male snowy owls are almost entirely white." Harry nodded in comprehension but did not reply.

After a pause, Remus said thoughtfully, "I wonder what she was doing so far south. Must be a mail owl."

Harry looked at him very oddly. "How can _she_ be a _male_?"

Remus chuckled softly. "Mail. As in post. In the wizarding world, we use owls to deliver our letters and the like. They're very useful, and they make very loyal pets."

There was another stretch of silence before Harry asked, looking troubled, "Do you think she belongs to someone else, then?"

Remus looked at him solemnly. "I don't know, Harry," he said gently. "If she does, I expect she'll head home once she's well." Harry looked quite saddened by this possibility. "But if not," Remus reassured him, "you are welcome to keep her as long as you like." Remus was rewarded with the smallest hint of a smile.

* * *

**The silence **had stretched for some time now. Harry found he really didn't mind it. It was not awkward as it was with some. With Remus, it felt comfortable, contented. Like he was merely waiting patiently for Harry to speak if he wished, but not pressuring him to. After discovering that the owl was going to be alright, Harry had relaxed considerably. But now his mind was free to wander back to his internal debate.

Still stroking the bird's soft plumage, Harry's eyes travelled slowly to the potions vials on the table beside her. Remus's wand was lying innocently there as well. He stared at them for a bit, thinking. He wanted to learn. He wanted to know how to do what Remus had done. It was some of the first magic Harry had seen by these people that actually seemed to be directed toward benefiting something. And Harry wanted it. He wanted to be able to help himself. He wanted to be able to help Mr. Bernards. He wanted to be able to help the world. And more than anything, he wanted to learn. He wanted to know everything there was to know.

Slowly his eyes travelled up to find Remus watching him silently—almost expectantly. Suddenly the words were floating to his lips. He didn't remember having made the decision, but as he said them, he knew that he had. He had been right. There was no going back. There was only forward. And forward he was going.

"Can you teach me?"

Remus smiled. It was a look that amazed Harry with its truth, its...realness. Never had Harry seen anyone look at him with that kind of genuine contentment, that kind of satisfaction. And something else. Something truly novel to Harry: affection.

"We'll start tomorrow, shall we? For now, why don't you head upstairs and get cleaned up, find that owl a nice comfortable place to rest. And I'll get us some dinner. Fair?"

Harry nodded. He walked into the hall, cradling the exhausted owl to his chest. As he reached the foot of the stairs, he paused, one foot on the lowest step. He stood there for a moment in hesitation before turning back to Remus. The older man paused in the act of clearing off the table and looked at Harry with a raised eyebrow, inviting him to say whatever he liked.

Harry cleared his throat nervously. He was not at all sure he wanted to open this particularly conversation. Remus seemed to have forgotten it for the time being; did he really want to remind him? How would he react? Was he angry? That was a stupid question of course he was angry. Who wouldn't be?

"Er...about before..." When Remus still looked confused, Harry clarified. "As I was leaving...earlier...I'm...I shouldn't have..."

Comprehension had dawned on Remus's face. "Forget it, Harry. It doesn't matter."

"But I had no right to—"

"Harry," Remus interrupted him. "You were upset. I can understand that."

It was Harry's turn to interrupt. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry. I...I know all this wasn't your fault. I guess I just needed someone to blame." By this point, Harry was staring down at the floor, chewing on his lower lip.

Remus considered him for a bit, head cocked. Then he said, very softly, "Thank you, Harry. Apology accepted." And then, closing the conversation forever, he added, "Dinner in half an hour," before disappearing down the hall in the direction of the kitchen. Harry pensively watched him go before making his way upstairs.

* * *

**A/N:  
**  
Mes chers compatriots français qui portent des bérets et fument des cigarettes,  
Je suis désolé si je vous ai offensé. J'adore les fromages qui sentent d'égout.

Okay, so the vet-student-ness had to seep through in my writing sooner or later; sorry if I went overboard. Many thanks to _greatest. wit_ for helping me conceptualise parts of this chapter. And thanks to all those who reviewed both past and present and to those who responded to the poll on my profile; it pretty much affirmed what I already felt, so I guess it doesn't change much, but I'm glad for the substantiation.


	12. 11 Professors Professing

**Chapter 11  
Professors Professing**

"**Then...then** it's true? He really has been found?" Flitwick's high, squeaky voice pierced the shocked silence in Dumbledore's office. Dumbledore nodded solemnly.

"But...where has he been?" Professor Sprout's startled eyes had tears brimming in them.

"That is not all together clear at this point."

"But surely someone must have talked to the boy!" McGonagall said in irritation. Tears had streamed down her face when Dumbledore had confirmed the rumours that Harry was indeed alive, but they were drying now, leaving stains streaking her face. She scrubbed furiously at her cheeks with a handkerchief and blew her nose, glaring at Dumbledore for answers.

It was more than could be said for Hagrid. The half-giant was sitting beside the fire, shoulders hunched and heaving, sobbing loudly. Occasionally, something resembling human speech would be discernable from between the sobs. "Little Harry...my little Harry..."

"Naturally," replied Dumbledore. "A few people from the Ministry spoke to him when they first brought him in. And I conversed with him not long afterwards. But the boy was...less than forthcoming. He's been through a great deal. I do not believe he knew much of the wizarding world or his place in it, and the manner in which the Ministry approached him made him extremely distrustful of wizards. But he seems to be making progress. This was two days ago now."

Professor Snape, who had been staring out the window in silence, whipped his head around at that, and gave Dumbledore an infuriated look. Dumbledore suppressed a smile. Snape liked people to think he was indifferent to this news, but Dumbledore knew better.

"Two days ago?" McGonagall asked irately. "But where is he now? Surely you did not leave him in the hands of the Ministry!" She was looking at Dumbledore as though she had never seen the man before. Hagrid chose that moment to let out a howl and his crying continued with renewed vigour.

"No. I didn't. And that is part of the reason I am telling you all this now. I told Cornelius I was bringing Harry here for his education. Ultimately, that is the plan, but I thought it was better to ease him into the wizarding world a little more gently than to just toss him directly into the hustle and bustle of Hogwarts." Dumbledore paused for a moment here. Snape was not patient.

"So where is he then?" he demanded.

"He's spending a couple of weeks with Remus in Sussex."

McGonagall gave a satisfied nod, but Snape let out an infuriated "_What?_"

"It was the best place for him. Harry needs a little peace and quiet. Time to adapt and learn about the magical world. Remus was the natural person to help him with this. He was very attached to Harry when he was an infant. I checked in with Remus late last night and he said Harry is showing interest in learning magic. Remus had planned on starting to teach him the basics this morning. Hopefully by the time term starts, Harry will be able to join the students of his age. With a little luck and a lot of hard work, that is—and perhaps some private tutoring if you are all amenable to it." Flitwick and Sprout nodded and McGonagall said curtly, "Of course." Snape merely glowered.

"You really believe that Potter will be fit to join the other fourth years? After just a few weeks of tutoring? The boy will have had no education of any kind in nearly four years! He probably can't even read! Especially if he takes after his father any." He added the last part in a low grumble, but no one in the room missed it. Except perhaps Hagrid who was sniffing too loudly to follow the conversation closely. Dumbledore sighed and gave Snape a disappointed look. The younger man had the decency to look vaguely ashamed, though Dumbledore doubted anyone else would have noticed.

"From what I observed of the boy, he seems quite intelligent and resourceful. I do not doubt that he will prove an able student. And he has already shown himself to have a remarkable control over his magic. Both Kingsley Shacklebolt and Remus have reported him to have successfully and intentionally preformed spells they would not have expected of full grown wizards. And he has done them without a wand." McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout all looked impressed. Even Hagrid raised his head blurrily to eye Dumbledore at that. Snape had gone back to his contemplation of the grounds, but Dumbledore could see that his jaw was clenched. "I feel certain he will learn quickly," Dumbledore concluded.

"No, my biggest concern is making sure that he is emotionally prepared to join his class. He has been on his own for a very long time, and I do not know what he has been through before that. My main goal this term is really just to make sure than he feels comfortable and welcomed here." Snape snorted but Dumbledore chose to continue as though he hadn't noticed. "Harry has made it very clear that he has no intention of staying anywhere that he has no desire to be. It's going to be a stressful transition for him, and if it proves to be too much, I don't doubt that he will try to run."

"So you intend to coddle him? Give him everything he wants?" Snape interjected.

"I intend to be understanding and patient as he adapts to a highly different lifestyle," Dumbledore corrected. "And I expect you to be the same, Severus." No one missed the threat. Snape grimaced.

After an uncomfortable pause, Professor Sprout asked softly, "When will he be coming here?"

"We have not fixed an exact date. Remus has requested that he spend Christmas with him in Sussex, and I have agreed. I expect Remus will bring Harry here a few days after that. He should have a week or two following to get used to Hogwarts before the new term and all the students return."

Dumbledore paused again, looking around the room to see if anyone would raise anymore questions. When no one did, he decided to wrap things up. "Well, I think that's all for today. I will update you as I learn more."

The professors began to file out of the office, Hagrid blowing his nose on a large spotted handkerchief as he went. Snape did not move from his spot by the window. When the door had closed behind Professor Sprout, Dumbledore turned to him.

"Was there something else, Severus?"

Snape did not look at him, just continued his study of the grounds. "Two days," he said. "You've known about this for two days, and it never once occurred to you that maybe I should hear about it?"

Dumbledore contemplated him curiously. "And what would you have done with the knowledge, Severus? Had I told you."

Snape turned to Dumbledore angrily, opening his mouth to speak before closing it. He opened it, but again nothing came out. Finally, "That's not the point! I would have thought that given my connection to Li—given the deal we made thirteen years ago, you might have at least told me that the boy was alive!"

Dumbledore sighed tiredly. "Severus, what purpose could it possibly have served? There really was not much to tell. I still have no clear understanding of where Harry has been or what happened to him or—"

"And yet you saw fit to inform the wolf?"

Dumbledore was silent for a moment. "Remus loved Harry very much when he was an infant. When the child disappeared, it hit Remus hard. I'm not saying you were unaffected by it," he hastened to add when he saw Snape open his mouth angrily. "But Remus's concern was for Harry himself. You cannot claim the same is true for you. Your interest in this affair is due only to his mother. That makes a difference, Severus. Right now, Harry needs someone who cares about him for him."

"I'm sworn to protect him!"

"Yes," said Dumbledore patiently. "And I don't doubt that the time will come when he needs it. But now is not that time. Right now, the main thing that he needs protecting from is himself—his own insecurities, his own reservations. And Remus is by far the most qualified person to help him with that."

"And on the full moon?" Snape interjected angrily.

"By the time of the full moon, they will be back in Hogwarts where there are plenty of people to keep an eye on Harry while Remus is indisposed."

Dumbledore cocked a head slightly and observed the younger man with a slight smile on his lips. "Surely you do not wish to be in Remus's place right now?"

Snape's eyes widened, apoplectic and indignant. "Of course not! Why in the name of Merlin would I want to be babysitting some spoiled, surly brat? Let Lupin deal with him, what do I care? And if you think for one second that I'm going to be devoting my free time to tutoring the boy in potions, you have another thing coming, Dumbledore!" Dumbledore could not help but let out a chuckle as the door slammed behind Snape.

Still chortling he turned to some papers on his desk which needed his attention. His eyes fell on an opened letter lying nearby and the laughter died on his lips.

It was troublesome; there was no doubt about that. But perhaps it would not prove to be a bad thing. Indeed, perhaps it would save the boy's life one day. Or it could get him killed. Dumbledore just wished he knew what it meant. He had his suspicions, of course. But he hoped to God he was wrong.

Dumbledore picked up Mr. Ollivander's letter, skimming through it for the hundredth time. After some thought, he raised his wand and held the tip to the corner of the letter, lighting the parchment on fire.

No one must know. For Harry's protection, no one must know his wand shared a core with Voldemort's.

* * *

"**This is** pointless."

"It's not pointless."

"Well, it sure isn't pointy."

Remus was torn between sighing in irritation and laughing at the absurdity of that comment. "Look this really isn't that hard—"

"I know it's not hard! That's the whole point! I've been doing this stuff since I was ten. And I never needed to wave a stick around and talk gibberish to do it! I thought you were going to teach me something new. Something I couldn't already do."

"We'll get there. We will," he assured Harry. "But first, you need to understand the basics."

"Why? Why on Earth would I ever waste energy doing this," here he waved his wand wildly, "when I could just do this," he dropped his wand on the table before flicking his wrist slightly in an upward movement. The pillow on which they were practicing levitation, drifted upward.

Remus sighed. He needed to explain this better. "It's not about the spell itself. I know you can do that. The idea here is to prepare you for the spells you _can't _do without a wand. And to do those spells, you need to get used to performing magic by using the correct wand movements and saying the incantations accurately and channelling the correct amount of magic.

"Now try again. Remember: swish and flick! And the incantation is Win-_gar-_dium Levi-_o-_sa." He said it very clearly, enunciating each syllable.

Harry sighed too, but cooperated.

* * *

**A routine** had begun to form for the inhabitants of the small cottage in Sussex. The first morning Remus had emerged from his room to find Harry curled up with a book at the dormer window outside his bedroom, Remus had jumped as though someone had casted a levitation spell on him. But he was used to it now.

Harry rose early each day, waited patiently for Remus to wake up, passing the time reading from one of his spell books. Once Remus was up and showered, they would eat breakfast together, discussing magical theory or wizarding society. Afterwards they would clean up and withdraw to the sitting room where they would practice all sorts of different charms and spells.

While at first Harry had found these lessons tedious, he had grown to enjoy them. Often he failed to grasp precisely why he would ever need to, for instance, turn a matchstick into a needle, or why he should bother with a wand and a silly word to open a locked door when he could do it so much more comfortably with his hand. Still. He felt an odd sense of gratification whenever he successfully mastered one of the spells Remus taught him, useful or no.

After lunch, Remus would usually find something else to occupy them. Frequently they would take long walks along the cliffs. Remus would chat to him contentedly about nothing in particular, and Harry would listen quietly, rarely contributing, but surprising himself with the realisation that he had grown to enjoy the company.

Remus didn't seem to mind much that their conversations were usually one-sided. He would ask Harry questions, and Harry would usually answer in one word, if he answered at all. Quite often, Remus would ask Harry about his time in London or his childhood with the Dursleys. Harry never replied. He often saw something resembling disappointment in the older man's eyes when Harry stubbornly ignored a question, but Remus never pressed the matter. He would change the subject and move on, a tendency Harry was extremely grateful for. Still. Growing to like Remus he might be, but that hardly meant he was going to spill all his deepest secrets to the man.

In the evenings, Remus usually left Harry alone to study, and Harry clung to these moments of solitude like a drowning man. Never in his life had he spent so much time with one person. Never had he been so close, physically and emotionally to another living human being. By the end of the day, he was desperate to have time to himself. Time to think and relax.

It was during one of these evenings that Harry sat curled on his bed, a blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders and a book on his lap. The snowy owl perched on the post of his bed nearest his head. A gentle knock on the door raised Harry's eyes from the book.

"Come in," he said softly, shifting himself so he was sitting up straighter.

Remus entered, carrying with him an armful of books. He looked vaguely uncomfortable. Harry waited for him to speak, a hand extricating itself from the blanket in order to stroke the owl's soft plumage. She let out a contented sort of hoot and closed her eyes.

Remus let out a slight smile at the scene and nodded his head in the direction of the owl, saying, "Decided on a name for her yet?"

"Hedwig," Harry responded, his eyes on the bird. It was a name he had found in one of the school books they had bought in Diagon Alley.

"The patron saint of orphans," said Remus appreciatively. "Very fitting." Harry did not reply and after a pause, Remus continued. "So, I suppose this means you're getting through _A History of Magic_ alright?"

"I've read through the fourteenth century," Harry replied simply. He had put the book down when it had started discussing Muggle persecution of witches and their habit of burning them at the stake; it reminded him most unpleasantly of the Durselys.

"Great. That's great. I know that book can be a bit...heavy. I never cared for it much myself, though I'm very fond of histories in general. I...er...brought up a few other books I thought might help in the subject." He seemed to be gaining in awkwardness. "Dumbledore is of the opinion that history is of a low priority in your education at this point. We don't want to be devoting too much lesson time to it. But neither do we think it prudent that you be entirely ignorant in the subject; it can be useful at times. And it does make for interesting reading, in my opinion. So. I figured I could just give you a few books to read on your own time and you can come to me if you have any questions. How does that sound?" Harry looked at him silently before giving him a fraction of a nod.

"Good. Good." Remus chewed his lip thoughtfully. "So, er..." He looked down at the books in his arms. "These are just a few I thought might be helpful." He handed over most of the books and Harry took them, flipping them over to read the titles. "_Hogwarts: A History_ is just a good book to have read before you get to school. It's well-written and will answer a lot of questions. And _A Study of Recent Developments in Histor_y is a good one for more modern history. _A History of Magic_ doesn't discuss anything much past the nineteenth century."

Remus was silent for a while, looking at three more books that he still held in his hands. He did not make to hand them over to Harry. Indecision seemed to be waging a desperate battle in his brain. Harry glanced at the tomes in Remus's hands before looking up at his face, eyebrow raised in question. Remus shot a quick look at Harry before he returned his eyes to the books. Slowly, almost as though they were the most fragile of objects, Remus passed them to Harry. Harry took them and cocked his head to read their titles: _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_, _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_, _Modern Magical History_. Harry could not see anything extraordinary about them; they looked much like the other books Remus had given him. So why the odd behaviour?

Remus had resumed the absentminded destruction of his lower lip with his teeth. "You..." He took a deep breath. "You're in them," Remus finally said, eyes not meeting Harry's. Harry gave Remus a sharp glance before returning to the books. "You don't have to read them if you don't want to," Remus went on, building speed. "It's just...I thought you might want to hear about it all from a different perspective. And maybe there's something more in there that I forgot to mention before. Anyway, er...when you're ready."

With that, Remus turned to leave. He looked back at the boy as he was closing the door, but Harry failed to notice. He was too busy staring motionless at the books in his lap.

* * *

**A/N: **Sorry! A long wait for a little chapter. Just been really busy of late. New poll up on my profile; I'd be much obliged if you'd all help me out. It's one of the few areas of this story I don't really have planned out. Many thanks to all of you who review.


	13. 12 Pieces from Different Puzzles

**Chapter 12  
Pieces from Different Puzzles**

**As he dressed** for a new day, Harry eyed the three books he had stacked and restacked on his desk. He had not opened any of them yet. He had thought he yearned to learn more about the events the night his parents had died, but somehow, now that the opportunity was before him, he wasn't so sure he wanted to know. Something he couldn't describe seemed to be holding him back, telling him he wasn't ready.

Hedwig gave a hoot and took a fluttering hop over to perch on the chair back beside him. He smiled sadly as he reached out to stroke her. She would be flying soon. He longed for it and dreaded it at the same time. He'd grown so attached to her; what if she flew away and left him all alone again? Alone.

Harry glanced at the clock on his desk before grabbing up a rucksack and stuffing it with a handful of quills and parchments with which to take notes. _Honestly._ _Whatever happened to good old pens and spiral notebooks, _Harry thought to himself. _Sometimes these people can be just so impractical._ He scooped up _The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 3)_ from the nightstand and shoved it into the bag as well.

Remus and he had taken to occasionally keeping each other silent company while reading in the afternoon. Harry found he rather enjoyed this, a fact which surprised him greatly. Remus would select a book off one of the many bookshelves scattered about the house, and Harry would pull out one of his school books; they would seat themselves in the living room and spend the next hour or so in silence save from the turning of pages and the crackling of the fire. There was no pressure to talk, but Remus was always there should Harry come across something that required clarification or incited questions.

Harry glanced at the clock again. Five to eight. He was having a slow start this morning; it was unlike him. Remus would already be downstairs by now. But Harry had had a fitful sleep the night before, and it had taken its toll. Seemingly without his command, his eyes travelled from the clock to the three books stacked beside it. He licked his lips, thinking. Letting out a sigh and shaking his head at himself, he snatched up one of the three at random and shoved it in his bag to join the other before heading down to breakfast.

An hour later found Remus and Harry pouring over a cauldron Remus had set up in the kitchen. They were attempting a Shrinking Solution. Harry had to say, dicing rat spleen had really not been on his list of things to do today. Remus was across from him at the table chopping daisy roots.

"It's important that you cut the roots precisely one and a half centimetres long," he was saying. "They must be all the same size, or it won't be as effective."

"Why?" asked Harry, slightly sullenly. He really wasn't getting into this whole Potions thing.

Remus paused in his task; he opened his mouth and drew in a breath to speak but then merely let it out abruptly with a frown on his face. There was silence for a moment and then, "I have absolutely no idea." He sighed and shrugged. "Sorry, Harry. Potions really never was my best subject. I'm sure Professor Snape will be able to tell you a great deal more. I'm really not qualified to answer. My technique is just to read the instructions and follow them to the letter."

"And speaking of...what does the book say to do next?" Remus asked as he finished shaving the last daisy root to exactly the right size and Harry scraped the diced rat spleen into the cauldron.

Harry consulted the book. "'Stir mixture counter clockwise, adding five pieces of daisy root every fourth stir. When all the daisy roots have been added, lower the heat to a simmer and add a dash of leech juice.'"

"Good. You stir, I'll add," said Remus. "And make sure we're not too heavy-handed with the leech juice. First time I tried this potion I put too much, and it was a complete disaster. Did you skin the shrivelfig already?" he added.

"Yeah, it's over on the counter."

They continued for a while longer in silence but for the occasional instruction read aloud from the book.

"I just don't get it," Harry admitted a little while later as he cut himself for the second time in his pursuit of slicing the caterpillars as thin as possible. "How is this magic? Couldn't anyone do this, if they had the right ingredients?"

"Magic isn't all about waving your wand and producing an instantaneous effect. Some if it is more subtle. Whether you notice it or not, some of your magical power is going into this potion as you brew it. Muggles can add all the ingredients exactly right, but they will never have the same effect because they have no magic to add."

Harry let out his breath sourly. "Well, I prefer the instantaneous kind."

Remus smiled slightly. "I tend you agree," he divulged. "But you're going to have to know it. And just because you don't particularly enjoy it is no reason that you shouldn't excel in the subject. Your mother was extremely vocal about the fact that she was less than fond of Potions, but she was one of the top of our year in the subject." Remus had put down his knife and was staring into space, a slight smile on his lips, apparently lost in a memory. Abruptly he became aware that Harry was watching him.

"Professor Slughorn, our potions teacher at the time, favoured Lily over any other student in our year, I think. He was head of Slytherin, and he was always trying to convince Lily she should have been in his house."

"What's Slytherin?" asked Harry, having difficulty following this conversation.

"Oh! One of the school houses. There are four: Slytherin, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Gryffindor. There has traditionally been a lot of rivalry between Gryffindors and Slytherins. Your mother was in Gryffindor, and every time Professor Slughorn would go on about how she should be a Slytherin, she managed to have some cheeky and more than a little insulting retort. I actually once heard her tell him that if she had wanted to sell her soul, there was no need to resort to transferring to Slytherin; there were more than enough Dementors who would be happy to take it off her hands." He chuckled until he realised that Harry was staring at him blankly.

"Guess you had to be there," Remus muttered. Harry stared at him for a moment before letting out a small smile and returning to his caterpillars.

There was silence for a few more minutes. Harry's mind was consumed with thoughts of his mother. He knew nothing of her; the only thing Aunt Petunia had ever told him about her had turned out to be a lie. "What was she like?" Harry finally asked, very quietly.

"Your mother?" Remus asked, jerking out of reveries of his own. "She was unlike anyone I ever knew. She was just such a...good...person. That's a terribly simplistic word for what she was. She just...never judged people...and she was always willing to stand up for the weak or oppressed. She was charming and witty and generous..." He laughed at a private memory. "We used to joke that your father really didn't deserve her."

"So, Dad was something _less than good_, was he?" Harry asked, smilingly.

Remus laughed again. "No, James was a good man, too. Just...not exactly on the same par. He..er...was a bit of a trouble-maker, truth be told. I suppose the more diplomatic term would be 'mischievous'." Remus had a fond smile on his lips. "We spent half of our school days planning elaborate pranks on the other students. Harmless," he hastened to add. "Or at least mostly harmless..." He laughed again, clearly lost in some nearly forgotten memory. "He was the best friend I had ever had...or have had since," he finished, his expression turning sad.

Harry was quiet. This comment made him start to think once again about this odd man who had taken him in without question. Remus never mentioned friends or family, and Harry was beginning to doubt he had any. He lived in this run-down, secluded little cottage, miles from anywhere. There were few photographs on the walls, and those that were there seemed to be very old, featuring people who were long gone, if never really forgotten. The way Remus acted toward Harry made him suspect that the older man craved companionship, and yet he never seemed to actively seek it. _What is it you're so afraid of?_ Harry wondered to himself, but he did not dare voice it.

The morning wore on and Remus spoke more of Harry's parents. Harry drank it all in, listening to various stories about their childhood exploits. He got the impression that Remus was enjoying all this even more than Harry was; it seemed as though it had been a long time since Remus had let himself remember all of this, and in the past, Harry suspected that those memories Remus did allow himself, were of the painful variety.

Remus was just finishing up the story of how James had finally gotten Lily to go out with him on their first date (by taking a Babbling Beverage and following her around annoying her until she agreed simply to get him to leave her alone) when they placed the cork in the final vial of Shrinking Solution. Harry was lost in thought as they cleared away the cauldron and potions ingredients. Remus muttered a quick decontaminating spell before going to the ice box to pull out the makings for sandwiches.  
**  
**Harry scarcely knew what he was eating. His mind was racing with thoughts of his parents. Harry wanted to know more. He wanted to know how the _good_ people Remus remembered so fondly had come to be the _dead _people Harry didn't remember at all. And he knew where he should start by looking.

* * *

**The evening **winter sun was just falling behind a hill when Remus and Harry settled themselves in the sitting room. Remus seated himself in his favourite armchair by the fire with a contented sigh and opened his book, placing his bookmark on a later page for safekeeping. Harry watched him for a moment, chewing his lip. His heart was beating so hard, he was surprised Remus had not heard it. Harry shook his head. He was being silly.

He seated himself in the chair beside Remus. Taking a deep breath, he braced himself as he bent to open the bag at his feet. The book sat there, innocent and harmless. Still he could not resist a glance in Remus's direction. The older man seemed entirely engrossed in his book, but Harry felt odd doing this in front of him. Maybe he should wait until tonight when he was behind his closed door. _No, damn it! You're doing this now!_

Harry reached down cautiously and slid the book out onto his lap. He ran his fingers over the front cover almost reverently. _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_, he read. Gently, he flipped open the front cover and turned to the contents, running his finger down the list: _Herpo the Foul and the Horror of the Basilisk_; _Corruption in the Arthurian Court: Morgana, Mordred, and Merlin_; _Salazar Slytherin: Dark or Light?_; _Yardley Platt and the Commencement of the Goblin Revolution of 1537_; _Gellert Grindelwald: Was It for the Greater Good?_

_Oh, come on. Where is it, already? There!_ Chapter 24. _The Years of Terror: The Ascension and Defeat of the Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named._ He ran his finger horizontally to the right hand column. Page nine hundred and forty-seven. Harry glanced one more time at the man beside him. Remus scratched his nose and turned a page, eyes never leaving his book.

Turning back to the tome before him, Harry pulled it open. Page eleven hundred and twenty-four. Too far. Harry flipped back. Page nine hundred and sixty-six. Nearly. He was just estimating another nineteen pages to flip when his eyes fell upon a full-page illustration before him and he froze. His eyes fastened to the image. It was a simple quill-and-ink drawing of a group of wizards, each with their wands held menacingly, each wearing long dark robes, each hidden behind threatening, ornate masks. Harry's eyes darted down to the caption.

_Death Eaters in their traditional garb. Masks were worn to protect the  
identities of the wearers; if one Death Eater was captured, he would  
be unable to betray the others, for rarely did he know who they were._

Harry's eyes travelled back to the picture. _What does this mean? Is it possible that—_

"Harry?" The voice was soft, but it pierced through Harry's internal reflections like a gong. Harry jumped and looked up at the man beside him. Apparently something must have shown on Harry's face because Remus was looking at him with confused concern. "Is everything alright?" he asked.

"I er...yeah...everything's fine, it's just..." He didn't know how much he wanted to divulge to this man. But he needed to _know_. "Who are these people?" he finally spat out.

Remus frowned at him slightly before marking his page with a finger and leaning forward to look at the book Harry was holding out to him.

"Death Eaters," Remus said gravely. _Well that's helpful, thank you. Just in case I couldn't read the caption_, Harry thought, but then Remus continued. "The most faithful followers of Voldemort."

Suddenly Harry was filled with a strange feeling that his mind was racing at a mile a minute while sitting perfectly still. _So that's who they were? That's why they—_

It had been so long since he had even thought of it all. At the time, it had been unsettling. He had only been in London a few months, and he had been frightened—afraid to stay in the abandoned warehouse he had been living in and afraid to leave it. He had finally moved to the other side of London, changed his name again, and cut off his hair with a pair of rusty scissors he had found in a dumpster. Time had passed and nothing had come of it. After a year or so, it had gone from being a historic event in his life, to one of many similarly disturbing incidents, and consequently, of little significance to a child living on the streets.

Abruptly, Harry realised that Remus was staring at him. Harry glanced at him and then made quite a show of repositioning the book to his lap.

Clearly, Harry did not do a good job of schooling his face, however, because suddenly, Remus said "You recognise them." It was not a question.

When Harry shot him a glance, quite unexpectedly he saw something that looked very much like comprehension dawning on Remus's face. But that wasn't possible. Remus knew nothing of this.

"Of course. They were the ones who took you." This had not been what Harry had expected to hear, but Remus was continuing on with certainty in his voice. "They took you from your Aunt and Uncle's. How did you escape?"

"I...what?" Harry had absolutely no idea what the man was talking about. "No...I...I don't know what you..." Harry closed the book. He was in no mood for this. "This really wasn't the book I meant to bring down. I grabbed the wrong one. I'm just going to take this back upstairs and er...get the other one and...er..." He was babbling, not really saying much of anything that made any sense, but he really just wanted to get out of there before Remus decided to turn this into some kind of touchy-feely-let's-braid-each-other's-hair-and-tell-each-other-all-our-secrets shite.

"What? Harry, no wait! We should talk about this! I want to help you, but there's just so much I don't understand." Remus was talking very fast, trying to get everything he wanted to say out before Harry shut both the physical and the metaphoric doors.

But Harry had already made it to the stairs, and he completely ignored Remus's comment as he said, "I'm just going to go get that book," before sprinting up the steps and leaving a very confused, very disappointed Remus looking after him.

Harry did not come down again that night.

* * *

_**Where is**__ it? I'm sure I put it in here somewhere._

The day before Christmas found Remus digging through the hall closet, pushing aside boxes of old family photographs, bags of his childhood winter clothes, and bottles of Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover.

Remus had been lying awake the night before, trying to decide on something special to do with Harry for Christmas. It had been a long time since he had celebrated it much, being as he was on his own for much of the past thirteen years. He had gotten to thinking about how he and the rest of the Marauders used to celebrate the holiday: with the biggest prank they could devise, usually. This had naturally reminded him of their sixth year. Remus couldn't remember exactly how it had all gone down, but they had each come away from it with a leg from the head table in the Great Hall.

Some years ago, Remus had put it away in a chest along with several other keepsakes and photos from his school days and stored the lot somewhere in this closet. Now if he could only find it. He would love to go through it again—reminisce to Harry all the exploits he shared in with his father. Bring back that moment they had had while brewing the potion the day before. _But first you have to find the blasted thing._

He'd forgotten just how deep this closet went. It extended far out to his right with the ceiling tiered down in the shape of the steps above. He couldn't for the life of him imagine what all these boxes were. He supposed most of them were things stored here by his parents when he was a child. He really needed to go through all this and reorganise.

Just as he was attempting to move a particularly heavy case, he heard footsteps above him and the ceiling shook a few flakes of dust down onto his head. He heard Harry rounding the corner at the base of the stairs and coming toward him.

"Oh good, Harry. Can you give me a hand with this?" he called from his crouched position inside the cupboard. There was no response.

"Harry?" He poked his head out to see if the boy had heard him. Harry was standing stock-still, staring into the closet with his jaw clenched and his eyes wide. All the blood seemed to have drained from his face.

"What's the matter with you?" Remus asked distractedly as he tried once again to slide the case a few more centimetres. He had not meant anything by this comment, just thrown it out without much thought. But the effect had been instantaneous.

Harry flinched as though Remus had struck him. The boy's eyes darted briefly up to Remus's face before they fell back to the depths of the closet.

"Harry?" Remus asked, true concern flooding him. He stepped out of the cupboard and straightened. It was only then that he noticed that every inch of the boy was shaking. Harry stumbled backwards, his hands seeking the wall behind him like a blind man. "Harry, what's wrong?" Remus reached out to lay his hand comfortingly on the boy's shoulder, and Harry nearly tripped over his own feet as he jerked back to avoid it.

"I...nothing. There's nothing the matter. I just..." Harry's eyes were still fixed on the cupboard as he spluttered haltingly. "I just er...I'm going for a walk," he managed as his hand found the knob of the front door.

"Harry, wait. Please. _Talk to me._" Just as Harry was wrenching the door open and turning to leave, Remus's hand shot out of its own accord to wrap around the boy's wrist. They weren't going to do this again. He wanted to make Harry stay. Make Harry tell him what the matter was.

But Harry had other plans. Something which felt like an electric current seemed to fly up Remus's arm from the point where their skin met. Remus leapt back, his hand feeling as though he had just set it on the stove.

Harry was standing before him breathing hard, his hand raised, palm toward Remus. Remus froze. He remembered all too well what had happened the last time Harry had looked at him like that—the last time he had tried to stop Harry from leaving.

Remus stood perfectly still, bracing himself for that horrible heart-stopping feeling as all his muscles tensed. But it did not come. Harry merely looked at him. Remus couldn't read the expressions changing on his face; it came to rest featuring something that looked almost like...self-loathing.

Slowly, the boy lowered his hand, his breath coming in sharp gasps. He was still shaking as he ran his hands over his face, his eyes pinched shut. Still Remus did not move. Harry looked up at the man with guilt in his eyes, opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and finally shook his head. He let out his breath in a sigh, turned around, and left through the front door, his feet following the familiar path up across the Downs.

Remus stood at the door and watched him until he was out of sight.

_Well that was well-handled, _he thought sarcastically to himself. _What kind of a mess have you made now, Remus?_

_Let him go_, a wise voice in his head told him. _Give him time. It's alright. He'll come 'round. But he needs time._ Sometimes, Remus really wanted to kick that voice in the shin.

* * *

**The waves **were crashing below him with a rhythmic roar. He stared at them transfixed. They were beautiful and terrible at the same time. Before coming here, he had never seen anything like it. The wind was blowing hard in his face, whipping his hair every which way. He shifted his stance and the frost-hardened ground crunched under his feet. He shivered in the chill; he had been in too much of a rush to leave to think to grab a jacket. A long stalk of browned grass scratched at his hand, and he brushed it aside distractedly.

_Where did all that come from?_ It really made no sense. Perhaps it was living with Remus and seeing how different his childhood could have been had circumstances been different. He'd scarcely given the Dursleys a second thought in three years, and now it seemed that every day something else brought it all back to the forefront of his mind. He didn't understand it. It was stupid. Why couldn't he just put all of this behind him already? It had been years, after all. He'd left the Durslesys once and for all. He was never going back there. So why did all this keep haunting him?

It was just a closet. It's not even all that much like the one at the Dursleys. A closet he'd walked past a hundred times in the past couple weeks. _But it had always been closed before_, a small voice objected timidly_. _Opened or closed it was still fundamentally the same thing! There was no reason to freak out like that. He gazed out over the water and allowed himself to remember what he had scarce ever allowed himself to remember before.

He had been ten years old at the time. By this point, Harry had known that he was different; he knew he did things that normal people couldn't. He didn't try to do these things. They just happened. He didn't know how. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia hated it.

It was Dudley's eleventh birthday and Harry had accidentally set a boa constrictor on him at the zoo. Harry had just been talking to it and then it had just happened. He couldn't say why or how, but he knew that he had done it.

Uncle Vernon had been irate. One look was enough to tell Harry that he was going to be very sore tomorrow, but Harry was momentarily spared, as he was not willing to do anything in front of Dudley's friend, Piers. When they had arrived home to Little Whinging, Dudley had dragged Piers upstairs to show off the new computer games he had received for his birthday. Aunt Petunia had headed straight for the kitchen, still muttering hysterically about snakes attacking her little Diddykins. Harry made to follow her, but Uncle Vernon's hand shot out and clenched around Harry's throat; he pulled the boy back against his big beefy chest.

They stood that way for a moment, waiting, Uncle Vernon's grip effectively blocking any noise from escaping. The minute he heard the door to Dudley's bedroom slam shut, Uncle Vernon spun Harry around and gripped the collar of his shirt, lifting the boy to his tip toes so that their faces were inches apart. It was always a frightening angle to view his uncle at.

"I _will _be dealing with you later, Boy. Have no fear of that," Uncle Vernon breathed. "If you think you can get away with trying to murder my son, you are sorely mistaken, you hear me, Freak?" He gave Harry a shake to italicise this, and Harry nodded, knowing all too well what would happen if he didn't respond.

"You bloody well better." He threw him against the wall so hard, Harry saw stars. Harry heard the sound of his cupboard door being opened, and he had scarcely had a chance to take a breath before he felt Uncle Vernon's sturdy grip on the scruff of his neck and his feet left the floor.

"Get in there," he heard Uncle Vernon's voice say as he was flying through the air. He landed in a heap on the floor of his cupboard. The force of the toss was enough to cause him to roll, feet over his head, and he felt his neck crick. He lay there for a moment, scarcely able to move. After what felt like hours, he managed to turn himself over to his back until he was looking up at the man standing over him.

Uncle Vernon fingered his belt as he stared down at the crumpled boy at his feet. "Don't worry, Boy. When Dudders's friend has gone home, we'll have our little talk." And with that promise, he closed the door.

The clatter of the bolt being locked rang in the dark, as did each of Uncle Vernon's pounding footsteps as he retreated down the hall. Harry was breathing hard. His breath filled his ears, becoming louder and faster with each passing second.

It was dark. It was so dark. The air was growing stuffy. It was too close in here. He needed air. He couldn't breathe. It's too close. _Why am I here? He's going to kill me. I need to get out—to leave. Get out of here, you fool. Get out!_

Harry had made it through a thousand beatings to date, but this was different. Uncle Vernon was never going to let him walk away from this. Not only had he done you-know-what, but he had actually used it against their precious Dudley! And he had done it in public! _He's going to kill you! Leave. Run. Now!_

_I can't_, he argued with himself. _Uncle Vernon said he'd come after me if I ever ran. He'll kill me!_

_He's going to kill you anyway, you idiot! Are you just going to wait here and take it? Get out! At least then you can buy yourself some extra time._

_But how? How am I supposed to get out? The door's locked!_

_Use it._

_Use what?_

_You know what! Use it!_

_But...I can't. I don't know how. I can't control it. It just happens!_

_Try! Use it!_

Harry's breathing had reached an alarming rate. He began to feel light-headed and dizzy, probably not aided by the crack to the skull. He crawled over to the door and held his hand over the lock.

_This is crazy_, he told himself.

_Shut up and TRY!_

He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. Tried to remind himself of what it felt like all the times he had done you-know-what in the past. An unnatural sense of peace descended upon his mind—a feeling of rightness. Warmth seemed to be trickling from the very nerves of his fingers into the wood of the door.

His mind reached out and felt. It felt the wood planking and the metal mechanism of the lock. Finally, it felt the bolt, pulled securely out across the tiny gap between door and wall. He did not know how long he stood there, eyes closed and feeling. But he jumped when he heard a tiny click as the lock gave way and the door swung open.

Harry sat there for a moment. He was in shock. He hadn't expected this to actually work. Had he expected it, he might have prepared himself for what to do next. But as it was, he had absolutely no idea.

_Pull yourself together. This is your chance. Go!_

Harry made a quick sweep of his cupboard for anything he wanted to take with him, but there was nothing. Why would he ever possibly want to remember this place?

Cautiously, heart pounding in his chest, he stuck his head out of the doorway and looked around. He saw no one. He could hear Aunt Petunia's voice in the kitchen and supposed that she must be talking to Uncle Vernon. The sound of computer-generated machine gun fire and explosions came from Dudley's room upstairs.

_Go now! _

Harry crept light-footed down the hall, heading for the front door. _This is it! You're almost there._ He passed the open door to the sitting room, reached out to put his hand on the front door knob and—

"Just _where_ do you think you're going?" The arm had shot out of the sitting room door and wrapped itself around Harry's neck, crushing his wind pipe. Harry struggled, but it was of no use. "I thought," Uncle Vernon snarled in his ear, "I told you to stay in your cupboard." Aunt Petunia's voice still floated toward him from the kitchen, and Harry belatedly realised she was on the telephone.

"God damn it, Boy, I am going to teach you not to disobey orders if it's the last thing I do!" Uncle Vernon growled as he threw Harry from him. Harry caught himself on the bottom step of the stair well, and he looked up at his Uncle, dragging ragged breaths into his lungs.

Uncle Vernon was unbuckling his belt, teeth clenched and nostrils flaring.

A continuous monologue was running through Harry's head._ No. This isn't right! I didn't mean to. It was an accident. This isn't right. I just want to leave. Please just let me leave. I just want to go. I just want to be gone._

Uncle Vernon raised the belt, readying himself to bring it down with all his force. _I just want to be gone!_

"NO!"

The word burst from Harry's mouth as he raised his hands to protect himself from the blow. Just as he said it, a burst of energy seemed to radiate out from him. A shockwave of blue light shot out, extending in all directions, melting into the walls. Through the window he saw it streaming out, running quickly through the neighbours houses and down the streets and out of sight.

There was silence. Uncle Vernon looked at him confusedly, standing stock-still. Abruptly, he seemed to realise that he was holding his belt above his head. He brought it down before him and looked at it with an expression of bewilderment.

He looked back at Harry who was still crouched on the bottom stair, breathing hard, eyes wide. _What was that?_

Uncle Vernon frowned at him. _Oh, God. Now I'm going to get it._

"What are you doing here?"

Harry blinked. "Huh?" he managed.

His uncle's frown deepened and he chewed the inside of his lip. "You're gone," he said gruffly. Harry simply stared. He had no idea what had happened, but he suspected whatever it was had caused Uncle Vernon to completely lose his mind at last.

"You're gone," Uncle Vernon repeated positively. "You're not supposed to be here. You left."

Harry swallowed. "That's right," he said. What was he supposed to say?

"So why are you here? You're gone."

"Yes," said Harry, rising to his feet slowly. Cautiously, he made his way around his uncle, keeping as much distance between them as the hallway would allow. "I'm gone. I'm not here. You never saw me. Nobody saw me. Because I'm gone."

"Right. Of course I never saw you. How could I see you when you're gone?"

"Exactly," said Harry, not having the faintest idea to what he was agreeing.

"You went to school yesterday. I saw you then. But you never came back. Because you're gone. Can't see you when you're gone."

"That's right. I'm gone." Harry was at the front door now. His hand found the door knob behind him, as he was unwilling to turn his back on his uncle. "I'm gone," he repeated. And with those final words, he pulled the door open and fled Privet Drive forever.

_I'm gone._

_

* * *

_

**Dumbledore adjusted** the half-moon spectacles on the bridge of his nose as he peered down at the letter he was writing to Cornelius Fudge. The man had been pestering him for more information about Harry, and Dumbledore was not at all sure how much longer he could keep him at bay.

Three more days. In three days Harry would be here at Hogwarts. Dumbledore prayed the boy had had enough time to adjust, because he couldn't delay this any longer. If Cornelius decided to send someone to check up on him, and the Ministry discovered that the boy was not where Dumbledore had said he was...well, there was going to be hell to pay. Dumbledore dipped his quill in the ink bottle and scratched out a few more lines.

"Headmaster?" Dumbledore's head snapped up to look into the glowing eyes of a wispy silver wolf. It opened its mouth again and spoke in Remus's hoarse voice. "Do you have a moment? I must speak with you."

As the wolf disappeared in a whirl of silver vapour, Dumbledore felt his heart stop. This did not sound good. When first they made arrangements for Harry to stay with Remus, they had agreed that Dumbledore would floo call every other night after Harry had gone to bed. If Remus was asking to speak to him now, just hours before they were scheduled to meet...it must be an emergency.

Internally, Dumbledore's mind was racing with the possibilities—that Harry could be hurt or captured or run away—but externally, his body was calm and collected as he moved to the fireplace, taking a pinch of green-tinged, silver powder from a box on the mantle. After half a moment's reflection, he elected to floo over fully rather than merely using his head. If there really was something wrong with Harry, he needed to be fully able to help.

At the sound of the whooshing flames as Dumbledore stepped out of the fire, Remus raised his head from where it rested in his hands as he sat on the couch.

"Remus," said Dumbledore in his best unruffled matter. "You wanted to see me? Is everything alright with Harry?"

"Headmaster. Thank you for coming. I, er...yes. Harry's...fine...or at least no different than he was. But I suppose that's part of the problem. He's out for a walk at the moment." Remus looked a complete mess—rather like he did the night after a full moon. He dropped his head back into his hands and ran his fingers through his greying hair, gripping it so tightly, Dumbledore thought he might pull it out.

Dumbledore cleared his throat and sat down on the couch beside him. "Clearly, something has come up, Remus—something that prompted you to seek my advice. So let's start from the beginning, shall we?

Remus sat up and dropped his hands to his lap, but he did not look at Dumbledore. Instead he stared off in the direction of the front door. Dumbledore took the opportunity to take note of his old friend's appearance. His eyes were red-rimmed and deep set with worry and the lines of his face seemed to have deepened. After a moment of silence, Remus opened his mouth and began to speak.

"I'm trying so hard to get to know him. I_ want_ to know him. So badly." He looked directly at Dumbledore for the first time since his arrival and Dumbledore could see the pain in his eyes. "He won't let me in, Albus. I've tried, I have. But he won't let me in. I have no more idea what goes on his head than I do a Mooncalf's. I've failed. I've failed you, I've failed him, I've—"

"Remus," Dumbledore interrupted the increasingly hysterical rant firmly. "I don't believe that for a second, but if you want me to be able to help, I need to know what has happened." Remus nodded a few times and took a deep, shaking breath, visibly pulling himself together.

"It's just...every time we seem to be having a decent conversation...every time I feel like I'm finally getting through to him—like he's finally beginning to trust me—it seems like something happens. Things that I don't understand, but things that make him just...close down.

"Yesterday, he was reading, and he came across this illustration of a group of Death Eaters, and...he recognised them, Albus. He...he stared at that picture and he looked—I don't know—like he remembered something...like suddenly something he had half forgotten made sense, but not in a particularly pleasant way. I assumed it must have had something to do with how he was taken from his relatives' home. But the minute I tried to get him to talk about it—tried to ask him what he knew about them—he just shut down. Just got up and left. He just doesn't trust me.

"And then this afternoon. I was looking for something in the hall closet. Harry came down, and when he saw me in there...he was...scared...no, _terrified. _ I've never seen him like that, Albus."

"Terrified of what, exactly?" Dumbledore asked, a crease appearing between his brows.

"I don't know," replied Remus, clearly put out by this fact. "It was like a child is scared there might be a boggart in his closet. He was just filled with this complete and utter terror, and when I tried to talk to him...well, he went out for a walk and he hasn't been back yet." Dumbledore got the impression there was something hidden in that last pause that Remus had not said.

"Any time I startle him or touch him, even just the barest brush, he... I don't know... I look in his eyes and I see panic. I see these terrible things that have happened to him, but I don't know what they are or how to help him or..."

Remus cut off and there was silence for a while. He was wringing his hands in his lap, eyes fixed upon them. Suddenly his voice dropped, soft and low and full of a bitter self-loathing. "Today, when he made to leave...I grabbed his arm. I just wanted to make him stay...talk to me...help me help him." He looked up at Dumbledore, his eyes begging for him to understand. "Harry...he turned around, and he looked at me and...and I was afraid of him." His voice cracked at those last words. He looked Dumbledore in the eye, and Dumbledore was sure that they had at last gotten to the reason that Remus had asked him here today. "That baby I held in my arms fourteen years ago...who I loved with every fibre of my being...I was _afraid_ of him."

Dumbledore took a moment to process this, and Remus lowered his head to his hands again. When he spoke again, his voice was full of a painful hopelessness. "Headmaster. I don't think I'm the right person for this job."

"You're asking that I remove Harry from your care?" Dumbledore's voice was casual, but inside he was uneasy. Whether Remus could see it or not, he had made remarkable progress with the boy and Dumbledore truly did not believe anyone else was up to the task.

"No! Yes. I don't know." Remus looked around the room as though lost. "It's just...what if I'm making it worse? What if the reason Harry's refusing to talk is...what if it's me? What if it's quite simply that he doesn't think me trustworthy? Maybe...he just doesn't like me. Isn't it possible that he might be more inclined to open up with someone else? I care too much about him to mess this up, Albus! He's too important, and I—"

"Remus, listen to me," Dumbledore said firmly before Remus could continue any further down this self-deprecating spiral. Dumbledore had observed Remus since he was eleven years old, entering Hogwarts, sure that because he was a werewolf, he could never have friends. He was sad to see that one's childhood insecurities were never truly healed. "We knew when we started this that it was not going to be easy. That day at the Ministry, a blind and deaf man could have seen that he had been hurt—that he was not going to be mended without difficulty. But you took this on because Harry needs you...and I think you need him.

"You have worked miracles with him. You have," he added determinedly when Remus made to argue. "He has made strides that I had not dared to hope for. You have been kind and patient and loving and everything that he needs. If he is still reserved, that is not your fault. And it's not Harry's fault either. He's been through something terrible. You and I can both see that. All we can do is wait. Wait and keep on being kind and patient and loving. Don't give up on yourself so quickly. And don't give up on Harry. I truly do believe that he'll open up to you, but it's not even been two weeks, Remus. He's been on his own for so long, I'm not sure he knows how to confide in someone. Give him time."

There was silence save for the crackling of the fire as Remus digested this little speech.

"You're right," he said finally. "I know, of course, you're right, it's just...For the past two weeks it's like I've been pouring over this puzzle, thinking that I know what the image is supposed to be at the end, but with each piece I manage to fit, I'm finding it's turning into something quite different from what I'd expected. And now...now I'm sitting here with two more pieces, trying to fit them together, but they just won't go, and...Albus, how do I know they're even from the same puzzle?

"I just get this feeling that I'm missing something—that I'm just so focused on this one obscure event that I can't see that there's something blatantly obvious right in front of my face. He's in so much pain, Albus. And I don't know what to do to help him."

"Keep doing what you're doing," Dumbledore instructed. "I have every confidence in you, Remus."

Remus let out a sigh and sniffed slightly. After a moment he gave a resigned nod.

"I expect Harry will be returning soon," Dumbledore said after a moment. "I think, given the circumstances, it would be best if I'm not here when he does." He eyed Remus for a moment. "Can you cope?"

Remus glanced at him and then looked to a photograph on the wall. "I always do, don't I?" he said with some little bitterness. "It's what I do best...coping." Dumbledore followed his eyes to the picture of Lily and James, smiling and waving at them from the wall opposite. He turned back to Remus, with a sad smile and rested his hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"I know you do. I'll check in and see how you're doing tomorrow night, alright? And we'll make the final arrangements for transferring Harry to Hogwarts then." Remus gave a slight nod, and with that, Dumbledore rose and walked to the fire. Just before stepping into the green flames, Dumbledore glanced back to where Remus still sat, staring at a photo and coping.

* * *

**Harry entered** the kitchen to find Remus preparing supper. As he came in, he saw Remus tense slightly, informing him that Remus was aware of his presence. The older man did not look around, however. Harry stood awkwardly in the doorway for a moment.

"Can I help you with dinner?" Harry asked timidly.

Remus turned his head partially around but still did not look at Harry. "That would be lovely, Harry. There are some vegetables on the table that need chopping." With that he went back to tying a pork roast. They worked in silence for a while.

"I'm sorry. About earlier," Harry said finally, as he deftly sliced a parsnip. "I guess I kind of freaked out."

"Do you want to talk about why?" Remus seemed nonchalant to the casual observer, but Harry could see he was waiting tensely.

"No," said Harry simply. After an awkward pause he added, "It's nothing really. It's just that it was so long ago, and I've really put it all behind me."

Remus dropped the ball of twine on the counter and turned, looking directly at Harry for the first time since he'd entered the room. "No offence, Harry. But clearly you haven't."

Harry said nothing. What was there to say? Remus sighed and turned his attention to the stove where a sauce was bubbling, and Harry moved on to peeling a carrot. After a bit, Remus broke the silence.

"Harry. Clearly something happened to you at some point—something that hurt you. I know better than to ask what it was or who did it to you. I can see you have no intention in confiding that to me. But there was something. And I think talking about it would help you. I'm not saying you have to talk about it to me," he hastened to add when Harry opened his mouth to retort, "but I wish you would talk to someone."

Harry let out a humourless laugh. "And who would you expect me to talk to, if not to you? Your Ministry went and erased my existence from the minds of every other person I ever knew. Convenient, isn't it?" It made little difference, seeing as Harry had no intention of speaking of it, anyway. But still... He was still full of bitterness and determined to not let anyone forget it.

"I do not condone what they did to you, Harry, nor will I ever," Remus said, very quietly. He turned back to the sauce.

"But it suited you just fine, didn't it? Got you what you wanted. Fit to your aims." Harry's voice was becoming harder and angrier with each word. He took a deep breath to cool his temper.

After a moment's pause, Remus replied, "I have no aim but to know you...and to make you happy. So, no. It did not 'fit to my aims,'" he quoted in a wounded voice.

Harry looked down at the knife in his hands. A wave of something resembling guilt seemed to wash over him. He sighed and extracted a stalk of celery to slice.

"We'll be leaving for Hogwarts in three days," Remus said after a bit. "There will be other teachers there. Students. You'll make all sorts of friends. I just want you to try. _Talk to someone_. You'd be amazed how much it can help you work things out for yourself. Believe me. I speak from experience."

Harry processed this for a bit. He wondered what 'experience' Remus was referring to.

"I'll think about it," he finally responded, knowing that it was highly unlikely that he would ever change his mind on the matter, but he wanted to appease Remus nonetheless.

"That's all I can ask," said Remus, slightly mollified, and the rest of the time preparing the roast was spent in companionable silence.

* * *

**Remus was just** beginning to add the decorations to the Christmas tree in the corner of the sitting room when he heard Harry coming down the stairs Christmas morning. Remus had risen early in an attempt to have time to decorate, but clearly he had not risen early enough.

"Wow," came Harry's matter-of-fact voice from behind him as Remus finished coating the branches in glistening, never-melting icicles. Remus turned to him. "It's beautiful. I can't remember the last time I had a Christmas tree." It was one of the few times that Harry had said much of anything remotely related to himself, and it made Remus both happy and sad at the same time.

"Same here," he replied stepping back to view his handiwork from Harry's side. "Truth-be-told, I don't think I've really celebrated Christmas in...oh, I'd say...about a decade?" He turned to Harry and smiled. "But I figured this year we really ought to do it properly; what do you think?" Harry simply smiled at him.

"Now, what say you give me a hand with these decorations? How'd you like to learn how to conjure up some non-bursting bubbles?"

"Um...sure," Harry responded before adding sarcastically, "That sounds very...er...useful."

Remus laughed. "Has anyone ever told you you're way too pragmatic? Every once in a while, it's good to confine yourself to the ornamental."

It did not take long before Harry had mastered the spell and was contentedly coating the tree in green and gold bubbles, adding each with a soft _pop_. Remus chose to continue with the enchanted frost and icicles on the mantle. He wondered when the last time this room had been decorated was. Before his parents had died, he supposed. After a few minutes, he had moved on to hanging garlands complete with real, twinkling fairy lights.

It took him a moment before he noticed the popping sound of Harry decorating the tree had ceased. Remus looked around from the chair on which he was perched as he attempted to reach above the window with the garland shooting from his wand. Harry was crouched down, his wand raised where he had been decorating the lower branches. But his eyes were fixed on a few small, neatly-wrapped parcels under the tree.

"Would you like to open them now?" Remus asked as he finished securing the garland.

Harry said nothing for a moment, just transferred a confused gaze from the presents to Remus.

"Or if you'd rather, we can wait until after breakfast?" When Harry again didn't respond, Remus went on hurriedly. "You must be hungry. I'll put some eggs on."

"No, er...I'm fine. These are...these are for me?" he asked after a pause, fingering one of the gifts and the tag upon which Remus had written Harry's name.

"See anyone else by the name of Harry here?" Remus teased, but his eyes were pitying. He supposed it had been a very long time since anyone had given Harry a present.

"You really didn't have to do that," Harry said awkwardly after a long silence.

"I know I didn't," Remus retorted. "If I had needed to, it wouldn't be a gift, now would it? But I wanted to. This is our first Christmas together in fourteen years...and possibly our last. I'd like to do it right. Go ahead and open them."

When Harry still made no move to unwrap the small pile of gifts, Remus pressed on. "Look, they're really nothing too special. I didn't exactly have a lot of time to plan a big Christmas celebration or anything...I just wanted you to have something to remember your time here. It's been a long time since I've spent Christmas with anyone." Remus paused, thinking. "I think the last proper time was with your parents...and you, when you were a baby," he added, not looking at Harry. Harry however, looked at him.

"Thank you," he said, very quietly, and he reached down to gently rip the paper off of the first gift.

The day passed in simple companionship. After a hearty breakfast, they had seated themselves on the floor next to the hearth with steaming mugs of hot cocoa in their hands. They chatted convivially as Harry flipped through the first in his new set of books, _Practical Defensive Magic and Its Use against the Dark Arts._ Harry had called down Hedwig and she was inspecting the new bird cage Remus had bought so that Harry could take her with him to Hogwarts. Remus told stories of the Christmas Prank tradition that he and the other Marauders had instituted in school. Harry had laughed out loud when Remus told him about the incident in the Great Hall sixth year; Remus thought he had never heard anything more beautiful.

Together they cooked a large turkey complete with gravy, roasted potatoes, brussels with chestnuts, and cranberry sauce. Remus was very glad of Harry's help because he couldn't remember the last time he'd attempted such a large meal.

They pulled crackers over the table and Remus promptly situated the resultant tweed deerstalker cap on his head. After some prompting, Harry followed suit with a fedora. The look reminded Remus forcibly of a Muggle movie he and Lily had taken James to when they had discovered he had never been to the cinema, and Remus told Harry so. After the movie, James had said that it was alright, but he would have much preferred it if that Illinois, or whatever his name was, had had a wand instead of a whip. As they stuffed their faces with turkey and potatoes, they pulled the wish bone, laughing as it stubbornly refused to break. At last Remus was left with the larger piece; he wished this day would never end.

After enjoying the Christmas pudding and nearly lighting himself on fire as he ignited the brandy, they retired back to the fire in the sitting room. They passed the evening sipping butterbeer and roasting chestnuts. Remus showed Harry how to play wizards chess using a set of chessmen they had attained from one of the crackers.

As the evening began to draw to a close, they were left sprawled out, yawning tiredly and stuffed to bursting with sweets. Harry was the first to find the energy to heave himself up to bed. As he left the room, he turned back to Remus.

"Today was a good day," he said, rather awkwardly. "I never thought I would say this, but...I'm glad I'm here...and...I'm glad I'm here with you." He said this last bit very fast as though hoping to get something very embarrassing out before he had a chance to back out. "Happy Christmas, Remus," he finished. Then he fled up the stairs to his room before Remus could reply.

Which was probably a good thing. Remus was standing in the sitting room, staring up the way Harry had disappeared, completely speechless. Gradually, a smile broke out over his face, and his eyes felt very watery. He closed his eyes and held a hand to his mouth. Those words seemed to hang in the air, a palpable presence. _I'm glad I'm here with you._

Today was a _very_ good day.

* * *

**A/N:** Because what could possibly put you more in the Christmas spirit that sunny, mid-July weather?

Had lots of problems with this chapter. I must have changed the sequence of events a good ten times. Sorry: _lots_ of drama and _lots_ of fluff and rather cliche. Thanks so much to all of those who have reviewed/favourited/ answered my polls/etc. Every response is always encouraging, so please, let me know what you think!


	14. 13 Waiting

**Chapter 13  
Waiting**

**The castle stretched** up before them, the many turrets and towers standing out dark against the blue sky above and reflected in the expansive lake below. Remus watched, smiling slightly as Harry stood there and stared. He remembered the first time he had seen the castle, so imposing and awe-inspiring.

"Extraordinary, isn't it?" Harry turned, realising Remus had been watching him.

"I still remember the first time I saw it. I didn't think there was anything more beautiful in all the world. It's customary for first years to take a boat across the lake on the first night they arrive at school. But we'll keep it simple and walk today," he added, smile widening. With that, Remus led the way across the lawn and up the hill toward the commanding front doors of Hogwarts.

The halls were dark and quiet as they walked through the castle. Their footsteps echoed off the stone walls of the corridors. Harry looked around, seeming nervous; Remus doubted anyone else would have noticed, but two weeks of studying the boy had taught Remus to read Harry...at least somewhat.

"Most of the students are still on holiday," Remus told him in an attempt to draw his attention off his worries. "Only a handful stay here over Christmas. You can meet them at dinner. The rest will return in January." Harry said nothing. His eyes travelled from portrait to portrait, the subjects of which were whispering excitedly to each other as Harry passed.

"Where is it we're going?" Harry asked after a pause in which all that was heard was their footsteps.

"To the headmaster's office."

"That Dumbledore bloke? The one I met at the Ministry?" Harry's voice was not particularly thrilled by the concept.

"That's him. We just have to check in with him. Meet your teachers, find out where you'll be sleeping, what kind of training schedule you'll be on for the next few weeks, that sort of thing." Harry did not respond, just continued to walk in silence.

Remus pulled aside a tapestry and led Harry up a narrow stair well to the seventh floor.

"It's all so big," Harry said.

"You'll learn to find your way around soon enough. It's a little overwhelming at first, but you get used to it. If you're anything like your father, I expect you'll be ferreting out ever secret the place has to offer in no time." Remus smiled nostalgically. He wondered whatever happened to the Marauder's Map. Probably still locked away in Filch's office.

They turned a corner and had at last come to the gargoyle guarding Dumbledore's office.

"This is it," Remus told Harry as they came to the end of the corridor and the gargoyle stared down at them. "Cockroach Cluster," Remus said clearly to the gargoyle. Harry looked at him like he had suddenly gone mad, but his expression changed to one of wonder as the gargoyle sprang aside and the wall behind it split in two to expose the escalating, spiral staircase behind.

Remus stepped onto the bottom most stair and Harry followed two later. He stared around in awe, running his hand along the stones of the wall beside as the stairs carried them up. His preoccupation with all that was around him led him to forget what was below him, and he stumbled slightly as the staircase deposited them on the top landing.

There were voices coming from the other side of the gleaming oak door before them. Remus recognised Professor McGonagall's unmistakable Scotch accent. She sounded angry about something. A moment later he heard Snape's oily voice respond, equally aggravated. Remus thought he could guess the topic of their disagreement, and he hurried to interrupt them before Harry could catch any of what they were saying.

He rapped on the door and silence, full of anticipation so thick he could almost taste it, fell from within. "Enter," Dumbledore's voice called, strong and calm.

Remus turned to Harry and looked him directly in the eye. "Remember," he whispered. "These are teachers you're going to be working with for the next six months. Be polite, be respectful. Okay?" Harry grimaced but did not argue. Remus nodded in acceptance. "Here we go," and he pushed open the door.

Remus entered the room to find the eyes of every one of its occupants staring at him. He stepped aside and held the door open for Harry who followed after. Everyone's eyes shifted. Harry did not go far into the room as Remus closed the door; he hung back, sticking quite close to Remus's side. Remus found himself suppressing a small smile. Harry put on a tough front, but underneath, he was just as nervous as any other student called to the headmaster's office.

Harry stood awkwardly next to the door looking exceedingly uncomfortable to have so many eyes upon him. Remus had a feeling the start of term was going to be very tough on him. Remus walked further into the room, hoping Harry would follow suit, but he merely hung back, shoulders stiff and carefully not meeting anyone's eye.

"Harry," Dumbledore said warmly. "It's wonderful to see you again. And looking so refreshed," he added, eyeing Harry's new clothes and neatly cut hair—well, neater than it had been.

Harry looked at Dumbledore, seemingly chewing his tongue. At a meaningful glance from Remus, Harry gave a slightly grudging, "How do you do, sir?" eyes fixed on a leg of Dumbledore's desk.

"Excellent. Quite excellent, thank you Harry. Now why don't you come on in—no need to stand in the doorway—and I shall make some introductions."

Harry took a few more steps nearer the desk and then settled for staring at the upper right hand corner off the room. The eyes of all the professors followed him except for Snape, who had turned to stare out of the window to the left of the headmaster's desk; Remus could not see his face, but he thought there was something odd in his stance.

"This is Professor McGonagall," Dumbledore was saying. "She is the deputy headmistress of Hogwarts as well as head of Gryffindor house and the Transfiguration instructor." Professor McGonagall gave Harry a curt nod which Harry hesitantly returned.

"Professor Flitwick, head of Ravenclaw house," Dumbledore continued. "Professor Flitwick teaches Charms..." The tiny man nearly bounded up to shake Harry's hand, saying, "A pleasure, Mr. Potter, a real pleasure."

"Professor Sprout is head of Hufflepuff and teaches Herbology..." Professor Sprout gave Harry a kind smile.

"And Professor Snape, head of Slytherin and our Potions Master." Professor Snape did not look round, and Harry gave his back a somewhat bewildered look.

"Now, Harry. Remus informs me that you have been progressing well with your studies. He has been most impressed by your diligence." Here Harry cast a fleeting glance at Remus before transferring his gaze to his feet. "Do you enjoy your lessons?" Dumbledore asked.

Remus got the impression that Dumbledore was merely asking in an attempt to bring Harry out a bit. The attempt was something less than successful. Harry merely thought about it for a moment before saying, "Well enough, sir."

"'Well enough'," Dumbledore repeated thoughtfully. "Which subjects do you prefer?"

Harry looked at Dumbledore for a moment then took a deep breath, shrugging. "Defence Against the Dark Arts is interesting, I suppose. And Charms is kind of...fun...I guess," he replied noncommittally.

Dumbledore nodded sagely. "Well, Harry, Remus tells me that you have reached a level in your studies that you would benefit more from tutelage by instructors more qualified in the individual subjects if you hope to pass your O.W.L.s next year."

Harry's head jerked up from his feet to look first at Remus and then at Dumbledore. "O.W.L.s, sir?" he asked, a frown creasing his brow.

"Ordinary Wizarding Levels. They are the examinations all wizarding students are expected to take at the end of their fifth year. You would be scheduled to take them in a year and a half."

Harry seemed to be grinding his teeth. "You are making the assumption that I will, in fact, be here in a year and a half." His tone was something less than polite and respectful; Remus cleared his throat softly and Harry shot him a look before visibly trying to calm himself.

"With regards to your studies, Harry, I think we must operate under that assumption," Dumbledore responded in placation. "We have made a deal, however, and should you decide to leave in six months, I will honour it." Harry studied him for a moment before giving a nod.

"We have put together a training schedule for the next two weeks," Dumbledore continued after a pause in which Harry did not respond. Dumbledore handed over a slip of paper which Harry took gingerly. "You will spend the mornings in a private tutoring session with one professor and the afternoons with another—with breaks for lunch and dinner, of course. The evenings will be spent at Remus's discretion; he has agreed to make himself available to help you with any assignments you might have."

Remus watched as Harry took this all in with some little apprehension; Harry was not at all used to being told what to do and when to do it. But Harry, after a long study of the parchment in his hand and a quick glance in Remus's direction, merely took a deep breath and nodded silently before returning to a study of his feet.

Outward acceptance or no, however, Remus could see the muscles of the boys back were tense and his teeth were clenched. Remus was sure he was not the only one to notice. All of the professors were eying Harry with a combination of pity and concern—well, all except Snape. The man had not moved since they had arrived; he was standing just as tensely as Harry in his pursuit of staring out at the grounds below, and Remus could see his hands clenched together behind his back.

"Now then, all that remains is for us to decide where you are to live. I have asked the house elves to prepare the guest rooms across from Remus's quarters for you. You can stay there until the start of term," Dumbledore informed, speaking to both Remus and Harry. Remus nodded. Harry continued to look at his feet. "However, once the other students arrive, you should join one of the school houses. There are four school houses, and which one you are in is decided based on certain character traits," Dumbledore explained to Harry. "Sorting you into the right house is quite important because the house you are in determines which dormitory you sleep in, where you sit in the Great Hall for meals, which students you are in classes with—"

"I've read _Hogwarts: A History_, sir. You don't have to explain this all to me," Harry interrupted, not looking at Dumbledore.

"Excellent. Excellent. That simplifies matters," Dumbledore said approvingly, ignoring the somewhat rude tone with which Harry had spoken. Here Dumbledore looked around at all of the teachers. "So. That leaves us with the decision of how we should go about sorting you." McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout all exchanged glances. "Normally, first years undergo the Sorting at the Welcoming Feast when they first arrive at the castle," Dumbledore explained the problem to Harry. "But as there is no equivalent feast when the other students return from the Christmas holidays..."

"We could do it at the start of dinner...the night the students return..." Professor McGonagall suggested undecidedly. "That is probably the closest we could get to a traditional Sorting. Most of the students should be in the Great Hall at that point."

Harry's head had snapped over to McGonagall when she said this, then his eyes travelled from Dumbledore to Remus. "What exactly does it entail—this 'Sorting'?" he asked guardedly.

"It's nothing to worry about," Remus assured him. "All you have to do is put on that hat," he said nodding to the Sorting Hat which was on a shelf above Dumbledore's desk."

Harry stared at the hat a moment, a frown on his face and his mouth slightly open, before he turned to Dumbledore and said, very determinedly, "There is no way you are getting me to put on some stupid hat in front of the whole school." Contrary to his previous behaviour of carefully avoiding anyone's eye, he was now staring resolutely at Dumbledore, his jaw set in a stubborn glower. Remus was torn between laughing and burying his head in his hands at this declaration.

Dumbledore eyed Harry for a moment before saying quickly, "Well, I suppose we could just do it now in this office." Remus got the strong impression that he was not the only one eager to make Harry's life easier and so doing encourage the boy to stay. Other's however, did not seem to share this view.

"_What?_" Though not particularly loud, the word rang through the office like a bell. All eyes turned to Snape who had finally turned around and was looking at Dumbledore incredulously. "And so it begins," he snarled. "Already you treat him differently from the other students—cave to his every whim. The boy could probably use an Unforgivable Curse right now, and you would just smile and pat him on the head. You can't treat him like he's special! He's just like any other student here, and he should be treated as such."

Remus felt his teeth grinding together. He was quite sure that if Harry were anyone's son but James's, Snape would not be so incensed at this moment.

"Unfortunately," Dumbledore responded calmly, "these are special circumstances; whether Harry is special or not is of no consequence," Remus wasn't sure he believed Dumbledore's conviction as he said those words, but he was very glad he'd said them. "Unless you wish to suggest that we revert to Time-Turners, there is no way to treat this situation as though it was anything but special."

"Tradition dictates that the Sorting take place—" Snape began to grind out, but Dumbledore interrupted him.

"There is no precedent for a student joining the school at this point in his education. As such, tradition has very little bearing on this debate. Now, unless you have another suggestion, the only options I see are to conduct the Sorting here and now or to wait until dinner on the night the other students return. As both break from tradition, I see no reason why we can't elect the option that makes Harry more comfortable and makes for less planning and bother for the staff." There was a moment's silence in which Dumbledore and Snape stared hard at each other and Harry looked between them rather shell-shocked.

"_Do you_ have another suggestion?" Dumbledore asked finally.

Snape opened his mouth a few times before letting out his breath in a huff and turning back to the window. Remus could practically hear the man's teeth grinding together. Dumbledore seemed appeased, and he turned to look at each of the other teachers in turn to see if anyone else would raise an objection.

"Excellent," said Dumbledore cheerfully when no one did. "Now, Harry. Why don't you go ahead and seat yourself here." He raised his wand, gave it a flick, and a three-legged stool appeared before them. Harry walked over to it and dropped himself onto it with a sigh as though he had decided to simply humour them rather than argue about how incredibly stupid it was to choose a house based on a hat. Dumbledore gave a slight smile and turned to remove the hat from its position on the shelf above. Dumbledore handed the hat to Remus, and he dropped it on to the slouching form of his ward.

Remus knew exactly at what point the hat began to speak in Harry's ear, for abruptly, Harry's sat straight up and all the muscles in his body seemed to tense. Remus smiled, remembering his own surprise when he had been Sorted. Remus and the others waited for the hat to speak expectantly. Remus told himself he did not care what house Harry was in, but a part of him knew he would love it if Harry were in Gryffindor. He had so many fond memories of Gryffindor and it had, after all, been the house of both of Harry 's parents. And so Remus waited.

...and waited...

After about a minute in which still the hat had not spoken, the teachers began exchanging concerned looks. None of them could remember a time when it had taken so long for the hat to decide on a house. Even Snape turned around to eye Harry's covered face curiously. Dumbledore, however, had not moved since Harry had disappeared behind the hat. He sat at his desk, watching Harry with a contemplative expression over his joined fingertips.

With each passing second, the atmosphere in the room became more and more tense. Professors Flitwick and Sprout were looking downright alarmed and McGonagall kept casting worried looks to Dumbledore as though expecting him to explain what was happening at any moment. Still Dumbledore did not move. Remus was watching the hat nervously, and he felt his breath catch in his chest as he noticed the rip near the brim open. Time seemed to slow as he watched the rip widen.

"Gryffindor!" the hat finally declared and Remus suddenly realised just how tense his muscles were when he at long last felt them relax. He was quite sure he was not the only one in the room who let out a sigh of relief. He helped Harry take the hat off and, as he was passing it to Dumbledore, he noticed the headmaster was smiling jovially, and Remus thought he recognised something close to smugness behind McGonagall's eyes.

Harry, however, Remus realised, seemed far from enthusiastic. Remus eyed him worriedly. All colour seemed to have drained from the boy's face and his eyes were wide. He was staring at the far wall, something which would not have been at all out of the ordinary had it not been for the fact that his eyes did not seemed to be focused on anything Remus could see; rather they seemed to be focused internally.

"Marvellous!" said Dumbledore genially, not seeming to notice. "Now that that's taken care of..." He turned back to them after replacing the hat on the shelf and stared around at each of the room's occupants in turn. He then took out a watch and eyed the time. "It's about time for dinner I think...Yes we have just enough time to go and wash. I know I for one am eager to see what the house elves have prepared; I had heard mention of a treacle tart for pudding.

"Remus, I believe you can show Harry to his rooms? And to dinner afterwards?"

"Certainly," Remus responded. He reached out and gently laid his hand on Harry's shoulder. Harry's head snapped away from the wall to look up at Remus's face. Remus was quite sure Harry had not heard a single word Dumbledore had just said. He nodded in the direction of the door and Harry seemed to come back to the present. He hastened to gather himself together and then joined Remus in heading toward the door. The heads of houses followed them out. Remus kept his hand on Harry's shoulder as they descended the spiral staircase, and he was pleased that Harry had not shaken it off.

Once on the other side of the gargoyle Harry stopped and watched as all the heads peeled off to go their separate directions, nodding to each other and to Harry and Remus: McGonagall and Flitwick down opposite corridors on the same level, Sprout toward the central staircase, and Snape down the secret passage way behind the tapestry.

"Are you all right?" Remus asked once all of them were out of earshot. "You seem pretty shaken."

Harry looked at him uncertainly for a moment chewing on his lip, then, eyes down on the corner Professor Sprout had just disappeared around, "You couldn't hear it, could you? What the hat said to me? No one could hear it but me, right?" His eyes travelled to Remus, face full of anxiety.

"No one could hear," Remus hastened to reassure him.

Harry breathed a small sigh of relief and gave a nod. Remus wanted desperately to ask Harry what the hat had said—what he was so desperate to hide—but he knew he would receive no answer. Harry did not want Remus to know. When and if he changed his mind on that score, Harry would let him know. But until then he would wait. He was full of worry and curiosity and disquiet.

But he would wait.

* * *

**Harry seated** himself on the windowsill in his new bedroom, staring out at the scene before him. The icy waters of the vast lake stretched out below him. Beyond snow-covered hills to his right, Harry could make out smoke rising from what he suspected were several chimneys. There must be a village nearby. Harry filed this information away; he never knew when he might need it. Should he decide to make a quick departure from this place a village could mean cars or trains...Then again it could also mean people who might recognise him. He would worry about that when it came to it. Beyond the village, the rocky peaks of a string of mountains rose majestically.

Harry turned back to the room. It was good three times larger than his bedroom in Sussex and twice the size of his entire flat in London. Most of the space was taken up by one of the biggest four-poster beds Harry had ever seen. There were two cushy armchairs by the fire and an ornate wardrobe in the corner nearest him which Harry thought was probably big enough to fit all of Narnia inside. Two doors led out of the room: one to the hall leading to the rest of the castle and one to a bathroom that Harry suspected contained more marble than the Queen's.

After showing Harry where his own rooms were in case Harry needed him, Remus had left Harry here to wash up and settle in a bit, saying that he would return in ten minutes to escort Harry to dinner. The ten minutes were up and Harry found that all he wanted was to be left alone. As though on cue, there was a soft knock on the door and Remus let himself in.

"Ready for dinner?" he asked lightly. "You really haven't lived until you've tried Hogwarts food. I'm sure you'll appreciate a break from my cooking, anyhow."

Harry didn't speak for a moment. He chewed on his lip and looked about the room trying to think of a good excuse to stay here. "I'm really not hungry," he finally decided on. Even he had to admit it was a rather lame one.

"Oh," Remus said and Harry was sorry to see that his face fell a bit. He couldn't seem to stop disappointing the man.

Remus stood there awkwardly for a moment looking for something to say. "It would be nice if you'd come down and got to know everyone a bit. It won't just be the professors; there are a few students who stayed. No fourth years, that I'm aware of, but there are at least a few people nearer your age than us old folk." He gave Harry a smile which Harry did not have the energy to return, and it slid off Remus's face quite quickly. He cleared his throat softly. "But of course if you would rather stay up here and get settled in properly, I can make your excuses."

"I would rather," Harry replied, fortifying his heart against the look of rejection on Remus's face. "I'm very tired, and I have a great deal to unpack," Harry added in an attempt to moderate the mood in the room.

Remus nodded and gave Harry a smile that was fooling no one. "Well, I'll bring you some treacle tart later, then." Harry mustered a small smile in return; he doubted it fooled anyone either.

Remus turned to leave. At the door he looked back at Harry glumly. Harry looked right back, expressionless.

When he heard the latch of the door click shut, Harry fell onto the bed, staring up at the deep indigo velvet of the canopy above. Tiny golden stars were embroidered in the patterns of real constellations. He studied them, trying to quieten his racing mind. It wasn't working

His brain felt violated. He wanted to rip that bloody hat into a million pieces. What right had it to go through all his darkest thoughts and memories like that... If there was one thing that Harry valued, it was privacy. And here this..._thing_...just waltzes in and starts pulling everything out and exposing it.

If he remembered correctly, Gryffindor House was for the brave. Harry didn't feel particularly brave at the moment. All he wanted to do right then was flee. Run away and never look back. He didn't like it here. He didn't like the way all the teachers had looked at him—intrigued and suspicious and pitying all at the same time.

He looked around his enormous room. There was once a time when he would have given practically anything to have a place to live such as this. He would have revelled in the soft mattress and the tall windows and the warm, crackling fire. But now...now he would have given practically anything to be back in his own tiny flat with his own uncomfortable couch and his own broken heater. He did not want this. He wanted to leave.

But he had promised Remus six months. Remus had been good to him these past two weeks. Harry found, quite unexpectedly, that he really did not want to let the older man down any more than he already had. He could wait six months. It was not such a very long time. He wanted to leave.

But he would wait.

* * *

**Some five hundred** kilometres to the northeast, far out on the open water, a barren island of jagged rock was situated, berated constantly by the crashing of the cold waters of the North Sea. There, towering above all else, stood the imposing form of a dark, stone fortress. The walls stretched smooth and unbroken save for the occasional row of small openings cut for ventilation. The waxing moon tried desperately to penetrate the depths of one of these ventilation shafts. A faint, silver glow glistened incongruously in a patch on the dusty stone floor inside.

The man shirked from the light. Light was a false friend. There was a time he had thought that light was a good thing—that it helped sustain life—but now he knew better. Light merely exposed how bad things were. Light showed what was below the surface, and what was below the surface was never a desirable sight. In the dark, his cell was just that—a cell. A small stone rectangle. But in the light, he could see the algae growing on the walls, the grime coating the floors, the rotting wood of the berth held up by rusted chains.

No, he would stay away from the light. He had no desire to see how the light would change _him_. How it would illuminate the mats in his long hair and beard, how it would bring out the sharp bones of his face and cast the sunken hollows of his eyes and cheeks into blackness.

He curled in the corner, watching the patch of light cautiously, never blinking, as though at any moment he thought it might attack. His left hand was picking at his lip. He could taste the filth under his finger nails, but he paid it no mind; all thoughts of sanitation had left him over a decade ago. His other hand was buried in the tangled mess of his elbow-length hair. He gripped it, the weight of his forearm pressing down upon the crown of his head as though if he let go, it might float away.

There was a steady _drip...drip...drip_ beside him. Droplets of water collected on the ceiling, fighting valiantly to maintain their position before gravity won out, dragging them down to crash upon the ground below. The puddle was growing steadily. The splash created by one drop splattered onto the bare foot nearby. His eyes jerked from the light over to the water. He shuffled back. Back further into the dark.

He did not look behind him. He did not want to see where he was repositioning himself. He did not want to see what filth was there, he did not want to see the rats or the damp. It was dark here. Darkness was safe. Darkness protected the fragile minds of the human race. Darkness hid the horrors of this world, horrors we could not bear to face. He would wait here in the dark.

He did not know what he was waiting for. He waited for something to happen. Something to change. He had waited for over thirteen years. And he would keep on waiting. He did not know for what. Death, he supposed. It was the only kind of change he could imagine. For he did not remember anything but this: the darkness; the drip of the water; the rustling of the rats; the clammy coldness of the air, of the stones, of his heart. What else there could possibly be, he did not know.

But he would wait.

* * *

**A/N: **Wow. Thanks for all the amazing responses to last chapter. You guys are incredible!

A few points that several people were asking me about that I would like to clarify:

1.) What was that about the Death Eaters? Did I miss something?  
Answer: No you did not. I haven't explained that to you yet and that is intentional. Sorry...I was trying to be mysterious...apparently I was a little too mysterious. But you'll find out all about that when Remus does.

2.) What was with the blue light during Harry's escape?  
Answer: Again, you're not really supposed to understand that. Why? Because Harry doesn't understand it, and it was written from Harry's point of view. It will come in later, never fear.

3.) So…is Dumbledore good or bad in this fic?  
Answer: NEITHER! I love Dumbledore. I think he's an absolutely amazing character, and honestly I'm not entirely sure why he is so hated in the fanfiction community. But just because I love him does not mean that he's entirely 'good.' He has faults just like everybody else. He is perhaps manipulative at times, but only when he has to be. He does genuinely care about Harry's well-being. But he also worries about the future of the wizarding world if Voldemort rises again, and he does know about the prophesy, after all.

4.) When is Harry going to open up to Remus already?  
Answer: I know, we all want to see them both happy, but psychologically speaking, I just feel it's a bit too early. Harry has been raised to trust _no one_. It takes more than two weeks with some random guy to get over that. He will, very gradually, begin to open up to Remus…just not quite all the way there yet...Remus and Harry _both_ have a lot of insecurities to get over. But it's coming. Hang in there.

Hope that clears up a few things for you all. Thanks again for all who have reviewed. It's incredibly encouraging to receive any kind of feedback.

Also, just to let you know, I'm back to school in two weeks (sad face) and to any of you who don't know, veterinary college is _extremely_ demanding; we're talking fifteen hour days demanding. So…updates are going to be slow in coming once term starts. I'm sorry. Believe me, I wish I could update every day, but it's just not an option for me. I hope that you'll be patient with me and keep reading, I promise to do the best I can once it starts and give you as much as I can between now and then.

Thanks again to all of you for reading.

Cheers!  
Baguette


	15. 14 Whispers, Lectures, and Sermons

**Chapter 14  
Whispers, Lectures, and Sermons**

**The halls were** quiet and empty. Morning sunlight was streaming through the eastern windows, glinting off the marble of the stairs below his feet as Harry crept down toward the Great Hall. He had risen early; no one else seemed to be stirring yet. Remus had stopped by the night before to offer Harry some pudding and say good night. He had told Harry that he would come by at eight that morning to show him the way to breakfast, but Harry was in no mood. He doubted he could manage to keep anything down in any case; his stomach churned from nerves and lack of sleep. Lessons would begin today. He would be meeting the other teachers one-on-one. He didn't know why—it was stupid—but the concept terrified him.

And so it was that he had pulled himself out of bed at dawn, dressed, and found his own way down the stairs. As he passed, he glanced through a pair of grand, oak doors leading into a vast hall with four long tables set up parallel to each other and a fifth perpendicular and at the far side of the room. He supposed this was the Great Hall. He glanced around uneasily, but no one seemed to be about. Nonetheless, he did not tarry longer than it took to take in the enchanted vaulted ceiling he had read about in _Hogwarts: A History_. It _was _extraordinary. At that moment it was mostly grey with cloud, but a patch of blue could be seen to the south. After another glance about, Harry made his way determinedly toward the towering front doors, heaved one open just wide enough, and slipped out.

The air was arctic out under the real grey and cloudy sky. Harry pulled his Mac tighter about his collar, berating himself for not thinking about the fact that naturally it would be colder here than in Sussex. He had, at least, remembered to wear boots, however, and he was grateful for it as he tramped through the knee-deep snow.

His trek brought him to a small rocky cove on the lake. The stones were slick with ice but Harry manoeuvred them with the agility he had learned from years of pinching wallets and food. The water was calm enough here that it had frozen along the shoreline, forming rings of ice around the stones of the shallows. A rock's-throw out, however, the frigid waters were deep and grey and angry.

Harry found a fallen tree on the bank that looked as though it had lain there for years. He seated himself beside a tangled jumble of roots, drawing his knees up to his chest to conserve warmth and stared out at the water. A steep bank to his back blocked him from view of the castle.

He did not know how long he sat there contemplating the water. He felt safer there. Less exposed. But safe was not the same as warm, and as time wore on, he was reminded of that fact. He shivered as a gust hit him from the north, ruffling his hair and tugging at his jacket. He was just beginning to think that he might be warmer if he got up and moved when the sounds of crunching snow alerted him that someone was approaching.

It took less than a heartbeat for Harry to slide silently off the log and face the direction of the noise. Instinct bent his knees, readying himself for a move. He felt a warmth spread to the fingertips of his right hand, and without thought, he held it forward between the intruder and his chest, elbow bent back at the ready.

Over the bank stumbled Remus. He paused and looked at Harry with his head slightly cocked and a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he navigated his way across the slippery stones with both arms outstretched for balance. There was something white clutched in his right hand.

"How did you find me?" Harry asked monotonously reseating himself and resuming his study of the lake.

Remus plopped himself down on the log beside him with a sigh. "My dear boy, if you had not wanted anyone to follow you, you would have wiped your footsteps after yourself."

"Maybe I forgot."

"Maybe you're subconscious wanted you to forget." Remus's tone was teasing, and he nudged Harry with his shoulder.

"Thank you Dr. Freud," Harry replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

There was silence. From his periphery, Harry could see Remus studying his profile. Then he too turned to look out over the water, a relaxed and contented expression on his face.

"I brought you some toast," Remus said, not looking at Harry as he passed over what Harry now realised was a napkin wrapped around a small stack of buttered toast. "Figured you intended to skip breakfast today. You need to eat _something_." Harry took the toast, though honestly it did not appeal in the slightest. But he would take a few bites; he could give Remus that much.

They sat in silence for a bit, Harry munching slowly. Another gust of wind came up, and Harry shivered. Remus glanced over him and frowned as he took in his attire.

"What are you wearing, boy? We're in northern Scotland for pity's sake. What happened to the heavy winter coat we bought you?"

"Forgot," Harry muttered. Remus sighed, shaking his head before removing his own scarf and winding it securely around Harry's neck, giving his hair a ruffle as he did so.

Harry was growing used to Remus's casual touch. At first he had hated it. Every time the man put his hand on his shoulder or tapped him to get his attention, Harry had recoiled. An inward part of him still did, but another part seemed to almost like it now. It was almost...fatherly. A small thought tugged at Harry's brain, but it was gone before he could grasp it.

"What say you we take a walk," Remus suggested. "Get you moving and warmed up. We've got another hour before you have to be in classes." Harry nodded and together they rose and headed south along the bank of the lake.

They were silent. Harry preferred this. He didn't mind Remus's company, but sometimes he just wanted to be able to think without busying his mind by trying to keep up with a conversation. Silence was never awkward with Remus, and the older man always seemed to know when Harry craved it.

Gradually they veered east away from the lake. They walked among the trunks of pine trees bigger than any Harry had ever seen. The snow was not as deep here, sheltered as it was by the great bows above their heads.

"This is the edge of the Forbidden Forest," Remus said quietly, after a bit. "You shouldn't go any further in than we are now. It's—"

"Let me guess," Harry interrupted with a smirk. "Forbidden?"

"Admittedly not the most creative name, is it?" Remus replied, smiling as well.

"So what is it that makes it out of bounds? They hiding something in there?" Harry asked, peering into the dark depths.

"It's just not safe. Students could get hurt. There are a lot of creatures that can be very dangerous if you don't know how to deal with them. The centaurs are very proud and very protective of their lands, and there's Acromantulas—giant spiders with a certain fondness for the taste of humans," Remus explained at Harry's confused look. There was a long pause and then Remus said, very softly, "And werewolves sometimes..."

"What, werewolves are real?" Harry asked grinning incredulously, sure Remus was having him on. "Like, transform-at-the-full-moon, bite-humans-to-propagate, killed-by-a-silver-bullet-to-the-heart real?"

Remus paused in his walk and looked at Harry very oddly. Harry could not read his expression at all. Then he opened his mouth, licked his lips, and then continued walking, saying, "The silver bullet is just a myth started by Muggles to make themselves feel safe, but otherwise, yes. It's all real."

"Wild," said Harry. After a minute, "Vampires too?"

"Vampires too."

"So all old those myths and legends are true."

"How did you think the myths and legends got started?" Remus replied rhetorically.

They continued in silence for a while as Harry digested all this and Remus apparently brooded over something. Harry could not help but to peer into the dark depths of the trees as though he expected to see a werewolf at any moment.

It was at that moment that Harry saw movement in the trees. No. It was just his imagination reacting to what Remus had just been telling him. There wasn't anything there, surely. But gradually a shape seemed to materialise out of the gloom. The sound of twigs and underbrush cracking under enormous feet finally convinced Harry that he was not imagining things. Remus too had stopped and was looking at the dark shape as it drew near them.

Harry licked his lips uneasily. He estimated the approaching black blur to be about ten feet tall. Remus hadn't said anything about werewolves being freakishly huge, so maybe it was one of those man-eating spider things. _Right, because that's a comforting thought_.

Harry glanced at Remus nervously, wondering if they should be running for their lives, but he realised Remus didn't look worried at all. On the contrary, he had a gentle smile on his lips, and a second later he raised his hand in greeting and called, "Good morning, Hagrid!"

As it passed through a patch where the sunlight penetrated the canopy, the creature in the forest raised what Harry abruptly realised was a head and looked at them with a face that looked...well, human. But that couldn't be. No human was that big. But then...

"Remus! Mornin'. And..." Here he looked at Harry, and his feet seemed to stop working—he did manage to catch himself before he could crash to the forest floor, however. But through all that he barely seemed to notice, for his eyes were fixed on Harry. "Tha's...tha's never Harry?" And abruptly he was crashing through the underbrush toward them at top speed, shoving small trees out of his way and startling a flock of birds from their nests.

In no time he had emerged from the trees and was standing facing Harry looking down at him with tears brimming in warm, beetle-black eyes poking through a face almost entirely obscured by a dark, bushy beard. Harry's heart stopped and his breath caught. Those eyes. He knew those eyes.

A memory floated back to him. No. A dream. It couldn't be a memory; there was no such thing as flying motorcycles. Or was there? How could he know in this mad world where there were werewolves and talking portraits and hats that dug through your brain easier than if it were a book. Abruptly Harry realised his mouth was open, and he shut it sharply.

The giant man was speaking. "Little Harry," he said, sniffing and holding a enormous hand up to what Harry supposed was his mouth under all that hair. "I hasn't see you since you was just a baby." He took out a spotted handkerchief the size of a small tent and blew his nose. "An' we all thought you was dead. An' all the while you was out there and now here yeh are." He was rambling, scrubbing at his face with the handkerchief, muffling the words almost beyond recognition.

"Harry, this is Rubeus Hagrid. He's the gamekeeper here and Care of Magical Creatures teacher. He knew your family very well when you were a baby. As a matter of fact, Hagrid is the one who rescued you from your parent's house after the attack."

"I know." The words fluttered to Harry's lips as he stared shell-shocked at Hagrid, and he was surprised to find that he did know. He wasn't at all sure how, but he did. Remus looked at Harry with a faintly startled frown but Hagrid seemed too distracted to notice what Harry had said.

"Yeh look jus' like I though' yeh would. Jus' like yer dad, doesn' 'e Remus? 'Cept yeh've got yer mum's eyes."

Quite without warning, Harry found himself enveloped in a bone-crushing hug. Every muscle in his body stiffened, his eyes felt so wide he thought they might pop out, and he had forgotten how to breathe. This last was of little consequence for he was quite sure he would not have been able to breathe through the pressure of the giant's arms, even if he did know how. Harry felt himself beginning to panic. Fortunately Remus came to his rescue very quickly.

"Hagrid," he said firmly. "I think you're suffocating him." He reached up and pried Hagrid's grip off Harry, and the boy took a deep breath in relief. "There you are, old chap. He's not going anywhere today. No need to hold on to him so hard."

"Sorry," Hagrid said, once again muffled by his handkerchief. "I'm just so happy to be seein' yeh again," he sobbed earnestly.

"What were you doing in the forest, Hagrid?" Remus asked, clearly changing the subject. Harry was very grateful of this.

"One o' the Thestrals, Tenebrus's got a touch o' colic," He replied with a final sniff pocketing his handkerchief at last. "I've jus' been seeing to him. M' ol' dad's recipe," He added, pulling a bottle out of one of the inner pockets of his mole-skin overcoat. "Aconite ter calm the nerves, mixed with Arsenicum Album fer the pain, Belladona ter bring down the fever, and Chamomilla ter relieve bloating. Works every time."

"Ah," said Remus, eyeing the bottle sceptically. "Well, I hope he recovers fast. Now, I'm afraid Harry and I should be headed back up to the castle. We only have twenty minutes to get him back to collect his books and then off to the greenhouses for his first lesson."

"Startin' with Herbology, are yeh?" Hagrid asked, looking at Harry. His eyes looked very moist and Harry feared he might start crying again.

"Yes," said Harry simply.

"Yeh'll like Professor Sprout. She's grand. Gave me some fresh Flutterby leaves to feed ter the Diricawls a couple weeks ago.

"Oh...er...how nice..." Harry responded, having absolutely no idea what Hagrid was talking about.

"Well, it was nice to see you Hagrid. I'm sure we'll be seeing you at lunch," Remus said, putting his arm around Harry's shoulders and steering him in the direction of the castle.

"Lookin' forward ter it!" Hagrid called after them. Remus gave a wave in acknowledgement but did not look round. Harry glanced back a moment later to see Hagrid trudging toward a hut not far off to the east and blowing his nose on his spotted handkerchief.

"You didn't tell me giants exist too," Harry whispered.

"Hagrid's only half-giant. Full giants are much bigger." Harry was quiet for a bit, trying to process how anything humanoid could be _bigger_ than Hagrid.

"He's a good man, Hagrid," Remus said after a bit. " He just gets...a little overemotional at times."

"I noticed," Harry responded wryly.

Remus looked sideways at Harry and smiled slightly. "He really does adore you. I think it nearly broke his heart when you went missing."

Harry glanced at Remus, but said nothing. It was still just so odd to discover that there were all these people he had never even known existed that supposedly cared about him. He just couldn't understand where they all were back when he had been so sure that _no one_ cared about him. Harry transferred his gaze to his shoes, and they did not say another word until they were all the way back to the castle.

* * *

**At precisely** nine o'clock, Harry knocked on the door of greenhouse three and let himself in. He looked around curiously. The air was close and stuffy in here after the fresh crispness of the grounds. The room was so thick with plants that Harry could hardly see further than a few feet in any direction. A series of small work benches set in rows in the centre of the room were the only other furnishings. Harry's eyes raked the room but he could not make out Professor Sprout's plump form anywhere.

"Er...Professor Sprout?" Harry called hesitantly. Suddenly a head popped up from behind something resembling a large fern except that it was purple and oozing a liquid that vaguely reminded Harry of the grape cough syrup Aunt Petunia used to give Dudley when he was sick.

"Ah, Mr. Potter. There you are. Excellent. Come in, come in," she called cheerily. "Grab one of these and make yourself useful," she added gesturing with a tin spray can. "I just got back after a couple weeks visiting with my sister's family in Cornwall and my Amethyst Athyrium has been dreadfully neglected. Here, like this. That's right, spray everything."

Harry did as he was told, as Professor Sprout nipped about with pruning shears. He watched her, with an uncertain expression. He had absolutely no idea if this was her idea of a lesson or if she was simply using him for an extra pair of hands in her own work.

She had generally a very disorganised appearance but a kind face, he decided after a bit of this. Her round features and warm eyes were surrounded in wispy grey hair that escaped from her pointed hat in every direction. There was so much dirt on her clothes and under her fingernails that Aunt Petunia probably would have fainted at the sight of her; the minute this thought entered Harry's head, his opinion of her improved enormously.

"Perfect," she said finally after several minutes of silent spraying and clipping. "You see, when you're pruning an Athyrium, you want to be careful to avoid cutting off the meristem or any major offshoots because this is where the sap is secreted and Athyrium sap is essential for Tussis drafts, so...you can imagine..." Harry couldn't imagine, but he decided to simply nod.

"Now, why don't you just hand me that bag of dragon dung so we can fertilise this, and then we can get to work."

"Bag of what?" Harry asked, sure he had misheard.

"The dragon dung, boy! The manure! There!" As Harry passed over the bag, holding his breath against the pungent smell, he eyed the label curiously. There were indeed the words **Madam Mabinogion's Grade A Dragon Manure** in bold letters superimposed over a logo of a red dragon with wings spread. Perhaps it was just a brand name. Then again, if werewolves were real, why not dragons?

After they had finished spreading the manure over the strange purple plant's roots, Professor Sprout led the way out to one of the work benches in the centre of the room, carelessly brushing the dragon dung off her hands and onto her robes.

"Now then." For the first time that day, she paused for a moment to study Harry at some length. Harry held his hands behind his back and met her gaze, waiting for instruction.

"Remus tells me that you haven't had much opportunity to practice Herbology. Understandable, of course, what with it being the middle of winter and him without a greenhouse. But that means you'll have to work extra hard if you want to catch up to your classmates. I had planned to start the class out with bubotubers when they return from the holidays; as bubotuber pus can be quite dangerous to work with for the inexperienced, we want to make sure you are competent with harvesting and pruning by that point.

"So. I thought we'd start with puffapods, today. Keep it easy for your first lesson." Professor Sprout beckoned to Harry and led him over to a stubby tree covered in fat pink seed pods. "They're ready to be harvested anyway, and we don't want them rotting on the branches—stinks up the whole greenhouse. Now, take your pruning shears..."

* * *

**Remus settled** himself at the head table in the Great Hall at noon. Harry was not there yet, but neither was Professor Sprout, so he supposed the lesson must have gone longer than expected. He looked around at those already seated at the table. Very few students had remained at Hogwarts this year. Dumbledore had decided to forgo the usual house tables and had instead conjured extra chairs at the head table for the remaining students. McGonagall and Flitwick were deep in conversation, but Professor McGonagall caught Remus's eye as he sat down, and she gave him a nod in acknowledgement over Professor Flitwick's head. Professor Dumbledore was seated a little further down and appeared to be describing the merits of the luncheon haggis to Derek Dunstan, a shy, second-year Ravenclaw. Professor Snape was eating silently at Dumbledore's other side.

Two Slytherin sixth years, Miles Bletchley and Stephen Capper were whispering conspiratorially together across from Snape. The few words Remus caught led him to believe they were discussing Quidditch tactics—or rather how to best throw the Gryffindors off their game before the match next month. Eddie Carmichael was sitting next to Derek Dunstan, a fork in one hand and a quill in the other as he frowned down at a pamphlet on the table next to his plate; Remus was able to read upside down the words **How to Succeed in Your O.W.L.s**. Eleanor Branstone, a first-year Hufflepuff was watching Dumbledore talk with her eyes wide and accidentally missed her mouth with her fork; she quickly glanced around to see if any of her fellow students had noticed, pink touching her cheeks. Finally, to Remus's right and across the table, Patricia Stimpson and Kenneth Towler, two sixth-year Gryffindors were discussing plans for an epic snowball fight that afternoon.

Remus wondered how these students would react when Harry entered the Great Hall. He suspected that by this point, all of them had read the Daily Prophet or heard that Harry had been returned to the wizarding world, but none of them knew that he was, in fact, here at Hogwarts. He hoped that Harry might be able to hit it off with someone here, but he knew he shouldn't hope too hard. Remus did not think that Harry would have a great deal of patience with staring and whispering, both of which he suspected would be in no short supply.

His head jerked up from his food at the sound of the front doors opening followed by footsteps in the Entrance Hall. After a moment Professor Sprout walked into the Great Hall. Remus looked expectantly behind her, but Harry was not there. It seemed to take an age for Professor Sprout to cross the hall, round the head table and pull out the chair to Remus's right.

"Remus," she greeted, shaking out her napkin.

"Pomona," Remus returned. Then, before she had even managed to settle herself, "Is Harry not with you?"

"He said he was going up to his room to wash up. I expect he'll join us soon."

"Yes. Yes, of course."

There was silence for a moment while Professor Sprout served herself, and Remus eyed the doors to the Great Hall, waiting for Harry to walk through them. "The lesson went well?" Remus asked, slightly concernedly.

"Quite well. I think he'll pick it up fast. Which is good, because he has a lot to learn."

"Yes, of course."

"He seems to be a bright boy. And very polite. But quiet. Didn't speak much at all."

"Yes," Remus gave a humourless laugh. "I learned very quickly that he has a very thick shell. But he's gotten better. When first he came to live with me, there were days when he scarcely spoke two words."

Sprout nodded solemnly. "Understandable. Have you no idea where he's been all this time? Has he not given you any indication at all?"

"No," Remus sighed, trying not to show just how much this concession hurt. "He doesn't talk about it at all."

Professor Sprout studied him with a pitying expression, and Remus figured that something of his disappointment must have shown because, after a moment, she elected to redirect their conversation to the weather.

A half an hour later, Harry had still not come down. Remus was getting anxious and could not help himself from continuously glancing at the doors, hoping that Harry would come through them. Professor Sprout had given up on trying to engage him in conversation, distracted as he was, and was now chatting happily with Hagrid. Remus glanced down the table and found Dumbledore was watching him. The man raised his eyebrow faintly, and Remus shrugged in answer to the unasked question. Dumbledore gave the barest trace of a nod in the direction of the door and Remus nodded before pushing his chair out and abandoning his barely touched plate.

Remus made his way up the staircase in the direction of the second floor corridor and Harry's room. Perhaps Harry wouldn't be there. Maybe he had gotten lost. Remus didn't know if he should be comforted by this thought or more worried.

He knocked on Harry's door and waited. There was no response. Maybe Harry _wasn't _here. He knocked again.

"Come in, Remus," came a tired voice from within, and Remus hastily pushed the door open.

Harry was sprawled on his stomach on the bed, a book propped up on a pillow and his feet waving slightly in the air. He did not look up from the book, and as Remus drew nearer, he turned a page, head tilting up to the upper left corner of the tome.

Remus stood there, staring at him with his teeth ground together, waiting until the boy did him the courtesy of looking at him. After a moment, Harry seemed to notice and glanced up from his book distractedly. He made to go back to his book, but then froze as he caught sight of the look on Remus's face.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "I didn't miss a lesson or anything, did I? I thought Transfiguration didn't start until one."

Remus still did not move. "You missed lunch," he said, his voice harder than he meant it to be.

"Oh. I wasn't hungry," Harry replied and then had the nerve to turn his attention back to his book.

"Harry Potter, you are going to close that book right now and talk to me," even Remus was surprised by the sound of his voice; he had never adopted such a firm tone with Harry. But he was annoyed, and he intended Harry to hear what he had to say. The boy looked at him wide-eyed before slowly marking his page and closing his book. He then shifted so he was sitting up and looking Remus straight in the face. When Remus was content that he had his full attention, he went on.

"Are you planning on doing this every meal for the next six months? Running off and hiding so you don't have to see or talk to anyone?"

"I told you, I wasn't hungry," Harry said, very clearly. His tone told Remus he wasn't the only one who was annoyed.

"Don't give me that, you've missed three meals now. You have to be hungry."

"I've gone a lot longer than that without food in the past," Harry defended.

"That is not the point, and you know it!" Remus almost yelled. He did not like thinking of exactly how long Harry had been forced to go without food in the past. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. When he spoke again, his voice was considerably more moderated. "Listen. You're at school now. And school isn't just about going to your classes and reading books and learning magic. It's about preparing you for everything you'll need later in life. And one of those things you'll need is _social skills_. The ability to interact with other _people_. And you're not going to learn this if you avoid everyone like they have Dragon Pox. And you're not going to learn it if you starve yourself to death, either," he added wryly.

Harry was now looking at his hands, defiance gone. "What's the point? All they're going to do is stare at me and whisper about me behind my back." Harry's tone was so dejected that Remus could have kicked himself for losing his temper.

"Yes," he said gently, seating himself on the bed next to Harry. "They probably will." What else could he say? Lie? Tell him he was being silly? That he'd fit right in? That wasn't an option. "But you know what?" he continued. "They'll stare and whisper a lot more and for a lot longer if you keep hiding yourself away like this. Come down. Get it out of the way. Be upfront and honest, and they'll run out of things to talk about soon enough." Harry did not respond. Did not look up or move from the contemplation of his hands.

After about a minute, still with no reaction from Harry, Remus gave a sigh and stood. "Look. Just think about it. If for no other reason than because you're going to be_ very_ hungry after six months without food." And with that, Remus left the room, a part of him hoping that Harry would follow, the other part knowing that he wouldn't.

A few minutes later, Remus re-entered the Great Hall, feeling particularly forlorn. He'd been too hard on him; he shouldn't have lost his temper like that. As he made his way back to his place at the table, Dumbledore's eyes met his own. His eyebrows twitched in question. Remus shook his head disconsolately. For the smallest fraction of a second, Remus thought he saw a flicker of disappointed in the headmaster's twinkling blue gaze, but before it could register in his mind, Dumbledore had turned back to McGonagall and the two were continuing a pleasant conversation, and all traces of it were gone.

* * *

**Minerva McGonagall** watched Harry chew on his lip as he tried yet again to transfigure his teapot into a tortoise. She could see that he was starting to get frustrated. He had at least managed to give his teapot scutes.

"Relax," McGonagall told him firmly. "You're getting discouraged, and it's getting in the way. You're doing remarkably well considering the circumstances."

"I never had this much trouble turning the rabbits into slippers," Harry grumbled, clearly annoyed with himself.

"This is different. It's comparatively much more difficult to turn something as simple as an inanimate object into something as complex as a living, biological creature than the other way around. It's all about entropy; it's easier to break down a sand castle than it is to build one, isn't it?"

"I really wouldn't know," the boy muttered under his breath.

McGonagall eyed him as he said the incantation once again, poking at the teapot with his wand. He was certainly a mysterious creature. His behaviour was so introverted—so guarded and reserved. Dumbledore had confided to her that he had yet to reveal much of anything about himself or his past. It was odd. Looking at him, one could not help but think of his parents, he looked so like them. But Lily and James had been an energetic and loquacious pair; she saw none of that in their son. The distinction made her terribly sad. She could not help but wonder how things might have been different. And what he had gone through that brought about such a disparity. Her lips pressed together in a unyielding line as she thought it.

One thing she was discovering he did not lack, however, was perseverance. Again he jabbed at the teapot, a determined look on his face. The spout was beginning to look ever so slightly more like a tail.

"It's the wand movement you're having problems with," McGonagall informed him.

"I guess I'm still not really used to waving these sticks of wood around," Harry admitted, eying the wand in his hand with some distaste.

"Here, I'll show you..." McGonagall reached out to lay her hand over Harry's where he gripped his wand and so guide him through the motions. The minute her hand drew near, however, the boy leapt aside, pulling his hand in towards himself and eyeing her suspiciously. McGonagall froze, looking at him in confusion and concern. They stared at each other for a moment before she decided to let it go, instead electing to demonstrate with her own wand.

"Like this. You draw it across," she whipped her wand to the right, "and then prod." She punctuated the last word with a forward thrust of her wand. "Try again. Nice and sharp wand movements."

A frown of concentration on his face, Harry complied, mimicking her motions. A look of surprised pleasure sprang to his face as the teapot gave a whistling sound and became a fat, dome-shelled tortoise. Admittedly a 'Made in China' sticker still adorned its plastron, but otherwise, it was quite neatly done.

A delighted smile crossed Harry's lips as he appraised his handiwork. In that smile, McGonagall saw something of the boy who should have been, had the world been fair. In a rare occurrence, she felt a smile tugging at her own thin lips.

* * *

**Remus walked** into dinner with a feeling of trepidation. He shouldn't have been so hard on Harry; the boy would never come down now. He was just so worried about him, and he had let it take over his temper. As he entered the Great Hall and looked up at the head table, it was with very little hope that his eyes raked through the occupants of the room. Even with very little hope, however, he felt his heart sink as he saw that Harry was not there. Moreover, McGonagall was already deep in conversation with Professor Dumbledore, so clearly the class had not simply gone on longer than scheduled.

Remus hung his head as he shuffled despondently toward the table. A part of him wanted to go up to Harry's room and drag the boy down, but he knew it would not help matters. He had made it halfway across the Hall when he heard a fork fall with a clatter. Remus raised his head to find Kenneth Towler sitting with his forkless hand half raised to his open mouth, eyes wide as he looked at Remus. The other students and teachers also looked at Kenneth before following his eyes in Remus's direction.

Silence fell. The students were all looking utterly dumbfounded. Remus began to wonder if this was one of those dreams where he had forgotten to put on pants, they were all staring at him so. But no. They weren't staring at him. They were looking over his shoulder. Remus turned around to see what every single occupant in the room was looking at, and he felt his heart leap.

Pride seemed to swell in his chest as he saw Harry standing in the doorway, head held high, glaring right back proudly at all the stunned students before him. He met Remus's eye and they looked at each other for a moment, both seemingly conveying an apology in his gaze. Then Harry began to walk. Remus stood where he was, waiting for Harry to catch up to him. When he had, Harry paused before Remus and looked him right in the eye. Remus felt a gentle smile crossing his face and, so quietly no one else could hear, he said the only two words he could think of at that moment: "Thank you." Harry simply nodded.

Together they approached the head table, all eyes still following their every move. Simultaneously they pulled out chairs and settled themselves for the meal.

"Harry," Dumbledore said jovially. "So glad you could join us. This is Harry Potter, everybody," he continued to the room at large. "He is a new student here and will be joining Gryffindor House. I trust you will all make him feel comfortable and welcome."

It was a great deal to trust, Remus thought. Gradually the silence was replaced by whispering. The students were muttering to each other, all with eyes fixed on Harry. The staff attempted to continue conversation as though there had been no interruption, but even they seemed distracted by Harry's presence.

Harry, however, ignored the lot of them. He helped himself to a pork chop, for all the world as though he were the only one in the room. Remus mimicked him.

"You must try these potatoes, Harry," Dumbledore said, passing over a dish. "They're exquisite." Harry took the dish, thanked Dumbledore with polite brevity, and then went back to his practice of ignoring every one.

Fifteen minutes later, Harry had cleared his plate. He brushed his napkin across his lips, rose to his feet, gave a formal nod to a few of the professors, and left the Hall. All eyes followed him until he was out of sight. The minute his footsteps had died away, the whispering was revived with renewed vigour.

Remus quickly finished his meal before following Harry up to the second floor.

* * *

**Harry rose early** again the next morning. He sneaked down through the front doors and made his way to what his brain had already dubbed '_his _cove.' He had no patience for sitting in the Great Hall, trying to calmly eat breakfast while everyone around him whispered about him. It was too early in the morning to be bothering to put up with that.—Honestly. Did they think him too deaf to hear?—It was a compromise he had made with himself. He would join the rest for lunch and dinner—it made Remus happy, at least—but breakfast was to be _his_ time. He didn't care what the others said. He needed this time to himself. He sat there on the fallen tree, looking out at the water, revelling in the solitude and allowing himself to slip out of time and place.

At a quarter to nine, Harry headed back to the castle, feeling refreshed if less than enthusiastic about the day ahead. He was to spend the morning in Charms. He hoped it went better than Transfiguration the day before; he was still annoyed with himself for choking in there. But he considered himself to be more adept in Charms; it was, after all the type of magic he had made use of the most back when he'd been on his own.

Professor Flitwick's office was on the seventh floor at the base of West Tower. Remus had given him instructions, but Harry found they were of very little use; he could have sworn there was a staircase there earlier. And hadn't this been the door he and Remus had gone through on their way up to Dumbledore's office the other day? Why did it now lead into an empty classroom?

All in all, Harry was slightly out of breath and anxious when he finally skidded to a halt in front of Flitwick's office door five minutes late.

Harry knocked and was admitted by a high and squeaky voice calling "Come in!"

"Sorry, I'm late, sir," Harry half gasped as he entered.

"Not at all, my boy, not at all." Professor Flitwick was seated at his desk, but he threw down his quill and hopped off the stack of books he was perched upon as Harry entered.

He was a tiny man. It felt odd to Harry, who had always been very small for his age, to now have to look down at a grown man. Professor Flitwick did not seem perturbed by this, however. A shock of unruly white hair surrounded a pair of bright, warm eyes as he surveyed Harry, eyes racking up and down his body.

"Well, now," he said, quite enthusiastically. "I've been quite looking forward to seeing what you can do, Mr. Potter. Professor Lupin provided me with a list of the charms he has already worked on with you, and I must say, you seem to be getting on splendidly. He mentioned that several of them you were already familiar with, having done them previously without a wand? Most extraordinary. Most extraordinary, indeed." He was grinning at Harry in delight. It made Harry rather uncomfortable; he was not at all used to people looking at _him_ like that.

"I thought we would start with a Summoning Charm, today. What do you say?"

"Er...sure..." replied Harry uncertainly.

"The object of the Summoning Charm is to compel an item to fly directly into your hand. It can be used over nearly any distance, if the caster is adept at the charm. I wonder..." Excitement shown in the old man's eyes. "Are you able to do anything similar wandlessly? I'd love to see it."

"Well, yeah, I guess. Sure," replied Harry, chewing on his lip. Harry didn't get it. Remus had spent the past two weeks convincing him that he needed to learn this stuff with a wand, and now this bloke was actually encouraging him to do it without?

"Why don't you try Summoning that book there," Flitwick said, pointing out a book on the other side of the room.

Harry took a deep breath, clearing his mind before raising his hand and reaching in the direction of the book. The book seemed to vibrate for a moment before it shot into his hand like a bullet.

"Oh, well done! A very good job, indeed!" Professor Flitwick clapped. "Just extraordinary. Absolutely extraordinary," he said, shaking his head and smiling. "But I suppose we should be getting on with your lesson, shouldn't we," he smiled conspiratorially at Harry. "True Summoning looks a little different than that, though the end result is admittedly the same. It is more instantaneous; however, once airborne, it also travels slower. Now the incantation in _Accio_. Say it with me. _Accio_. Very good. It's always very important that we pronounce our incantations very clearly."

The lesson continued in much the same vein. For the first time since coming to this place, Harry felt like he was performing well. It only took him a few minutes to master Summoning Charms and Banishing Charms after that were painless, though admittedly his aim could use a little work. Finally, Professor Flitwick let Harry practice Cheering Charms on him. Harry was of the opinion that the tiny professor most definitely was _no_t in need of any more cheering and found himself wondering if there was such a thing as _too _happy.

All in all, Harry was feeling quite contented as he and Professor Flitwick made their way down to the Great Hall for lunch, Professor Flitwick telling him an amusing story about a wizard who had mispronounced an incantation and found himself trapped under a buffalo. Harry actually found himself laughing and was really quite relaxed. Until, that is, they reached the Entrance Hall, and he remembered where they were going. Before entering the Great Hall, he took a deep breath and braced himself for another painful meal surrounded by whispers.

* * *

**A knock broke** through the silence of Severus Snape's office. He raised his head from the papers on his desk with annoyance. He supposed it was some kind of cosmic joke that every time he sat down to get some work done, someone interrupted.

"Enter," he called, his voice clearly expressing his peevishness.

The door swung open and Snape's gaze met with a very familiar pair of bright green eyes. Snape felt his heart jolt for a moment before he took in the infuriating James-Potter face they were set into. The Potter boy just stood there silently in the doorway, looking at him expectantly.

"Well?" Snape snapped irritably. "What do you want?"

A crease appeared in the boy's brow. He looked sideways for a moment, checking the clock on the wall, before meeting Snape's eyes again.

"I'm er...sorry to disturb you, sir, it's just...the schedule Professor Dumbledore gave me says I'm to have a lesson with you right now?" he said it as a question.

Snape let out an aggravated sigh. "Of course it does," he said crossly, more to himself. Didn't he tell the old fool he would have nothing to do with this...this venture? Didn't he expressly say to leave him out of it? That he wouldn't train the boy?

The boy was standing there awkwardly, looking increasingly nervous. The silence stretched before Potter cleared his throat uneasily and said, "I could...come back...if you'd prefer."

Snape said nothing, just studied the boy over his desk, a glower on his face. The child did look sickeningly like his father. But...there was something of Lily in his appearance: his eyes, certainly, but something else...something in his expression. Potter shifted nervously under the intense gaze.

"I'll just go," he finally said decidedly, and he made to turn back toward the door.

"You're here now, anyway," Snape cut him off sharply. "Might as well make use of the time."

Potter turned back toward him, and stood, hands clasped behind his back, looking at Snape expectantly.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Go get a cauldron from the back of the class and set it up over there." Potter scuttled to obey.

Once Potter had set up his cauldron where Snape had instructed him to, Snape tapped his wand on the black board and instructions for the Hair-Raising Potion appeared.

"Ingredients are in the store cupboards in the corner, instructions are on the board. You have ninety minutes. Don't bother me unless the room is on fire." And with that, he went back to the papers on his desk. Honestly. If Dumbledore expected him to give up his hard-earned free time just like that, he had another thing coming to him.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Potter was standing there and gaping at him. After a moment, he looked around him as though lost. Snape determinedly ignored him and after a bit, the boy hesitantly bent to start a fire beneath his cauldron. It took him four pathetic tries before he finally got it lit.

The minutes began to stretch past in silence save for the scratching of Snape's quill and the bubbling from Potter's cauldron. Snape watched him, without seeming to do so; he didn't want the dunderhead to blow up his office, after all—it certainly wasn't out of interest. And he was glad he did so, because thirty minutes in...

"Potter!" he snarled. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Sorry?" the boy had to the nerve to ask, completely oblivious.

"Read line sixteen for me, Potter," Snape spat in return.

The boy turned to the board and read aloud, "'Slice rate tails and combine with hellebore extract. Add mixture to cauldron all at once, stirring counter-clockwise.'" He turned to Snape, looking at him with a questioning look, still completely unaware of what he had done wrong.

Snape growled in frustration. "Do you know what the word 'slice' means, Potter?"

Potter looked down at his rat tails then back up at Snape, still nonplussed. "Yes, sir," he replied.

"Well, clearly you don't Potter. Either that or you merely choose to disregard the instructions. Do you think you know better, Potter?"

"No, sir, I just—"

Snape could have screamed in irritation at the still mystified expression on Potter's face. "_Slice_, Potter. _Slice_! Not _mince_. Now dispose of this useless rubbish and start over. And it will be a detention if you waste any more ingredients needlessly."

* * *

**Harry lay in** his bed that night, looking up at the starry canopy above. The hours had stretched on and the constellations had rotated above his head. Only two days had passed since he had come here, but it felt like two years. He felt old and exhausted. He missed the relaxed informality of his lessons with Remus. Chatting about magical theory over lunch, practicing charms as they came up in day to day chores, taking long walks along the cliffs discussing wizarding culture. Here everything was just so scheduled.

His teachers here were all nice enough, he supposed. _Well, with the exception of Snape_. Harry made a mental note to ask Remus what the bloke's problem was. Honestly, was that his idea of teaching? Ignoring him for half the time and criticising him for the other half? It made Harry homesick for Remus's brightly lit kitchen and the make-shift potions bench they had set up.

...Had he really just thought that? _Homesick?_ Surly he didn't consider Remus's house his _home_, did he? It was just a place, after all. A place where he had once lived, just like any other place; just like the flat in Bethnal Green or the warehouse in Park Royal or the abandoned shop in Charingcross. And he had never considered any of _those_ places home. He had never considered _anywhere_ home.

He rolled over on his side, his head pillowed on his hands and filled with thoughts of the time he had spent in Sussex. He didn't suppose he would ever go back there. He was surprised by how much the thought hurt. He had been happy there. He had been so distracted—so busy feeling sorry for himself and angry at everyone and everything that he had not noticed, but he had been happy. And now he would never go back. It seemed like a terrible waste.

His eyes drifted shut and he fell asleep, the distant sound of the sea crashing against the chalky cliffs of Sussex playing in his ears as though he had never left.

* * *

**A/N:** Many thanks for all the vet-school-related well-wishes; I really appreciate how understanding you lot are concerning the slow updates. I promise, I'll update when I can. Hope you like this chapter. Not a lot of action, I'm afraid; pretty much just characterisation... Please review!


	16. 15 Natural State

**Chapter 15  
Natural State**

**Routine had** settled on him much as it had in Sussex, but here at Hogwarts, the weight of it felt crushing. Harry thought he would not have been able to stand it, were it not for his mornings spent out in the open air, seated on his fallen tree in the shelter of the cove.

Most mornings, he would sit here and turn his brain off. Nothing would exist but him and the water and the stones and the sky. He would sit alone—completely alone—and at no other time did he feel less lonely. On this particular morning, however, as he traipsed his way through the snow, his brain stubbornly refused to turn off. He did not want to think, but try as he might, think he did.

They were coming today—the other students. Harry was dreading it. He felt as though he were standing on a bank, watching a vast wave rise up before him, ready to beat him down. He was drowning before ever the wave crashed down upon him, drowning before the angry water ever filled his lungs and choked him in its icy grip. He was drowning in apprehension and despair.

Those students already here were _starting_ to get used to him...a bit... The room still fell silent whenever he entered, but the silence did not last for quite as long anymore. And they didn't stare at him the entire time he was there—just glanced at him every few seconds. It was an improvement, he supposed. Not much, but something.

_But now..._ Now the other students were returning, he would have to start from scratch. They would stare and whisper, and Harry would have to sit there, pretending he was so blind and deaf that he didn't notice. Honestly. Did they think he was an idiot? That he didn't know exactly what they were talking about?

It was sunny this morning. Sunny and cold in that way only winter can manage. Harry wondered vaguely why it was that the sun always failed to warm the air on days like this; instead all it managed was to blind him with its brilliance as it reflected off the snow, showing off all the colours of the rainbow as it was refracted a trillion times over by the tiny prisms of ice crusting over the knee-deep snow. Harry didn't like it. It tried to lie to him, trick him. It was false, just like everything else in his life these days. _Why can't things just be what they are?_

Harry climbed over the last snowy dune to his cove and picked across the icy rocks to his usual perch on the beached log. His eyes were on his feet, careful of where he positioned his weight on the slippery surface, and so it was that he did not see him standing there until the man spoke.

"Ah, Harry! What a coincidence."

Harry jumped, and his right foot slipped out from under him. He caught himself before he could hit the ground, though. Regaining his balance, he looked up to find Professor Albus Dumbledore leaning casually against the roots of his tree. Harry didn't believe for an instant that this was a "coincidence."

"I'm very fond of this place," Dumbledore continued. "Such a perfect spot for one to clear one's head, don't you think?" He gave Harry one of those patented, twinkle-eyed smiles, which Harry did not return.

He did not know how to feel about this man who stood before him in a ridiculous pair of pink fuzzy earmuffs and matching mittens. Harry wanted to hate him, largely because he was this constant reminder of that horrible day in the Ministry. But Harry knew he was being unfair. Dumbledore had never done anything to intentionally hurt him, at least as far as he could tell. But Harry just couldn't bring himself to trust this strange old man who everyone seemed to revere a little too readily. Still...Remus trusted Dumbledore. And Harry trusted Remus, or at least he wanted to...

Harry stood there awkwardly watching Dumbledore unsurely. He had no desire to stay and chat with the headmaster, but he could hardly just turn around and leave—he felt no fondness for Dumbledore, but that felt too rude, even for one of the men responsible for tearing him from his life and bringing him here. And so he stood there chewing on his lip and shifting his feet as he tried to work it all out, indecision plaguing his already confused mind. Dumbledore was quick to take advantage of this.

"I was making a tour of the lake. It's an exercise I try to undertake as often as I have time. Good work for the body, good work for the brain. It's remarkable: no matter how muddled my thoughts can be, they always seem to be righted by a good walk. Why don't you join me? I guarantee, it will do you good." Dumbledore's tone was friendly and casual, but Harry got the strong impression, refusal was not an option. There was an intensity deep within the headmaster's twinkling gaze.

"Alright," Harry shrugged. What else was there to say? He followed the headmaster, trudging through the snow in the opposite direction around the lake as he had taken with Remus previously. Whatever Dumbledore had said about taking this walk frequently, there were no footprints breaking the snow_. On the other hand_, thought Harry as his foot found a hole and he sank in up to his hip, _the man's walking with more ease than a hare, for all that he looks to be about a hundred and fifty. Maybe he knows the terrain better than I gave him credit._

"Your classes are going well?" Dumbledore did not wait for a response. Perhaps he knew Harry wouldn't give a satisfactory one. "Most of your professors seem pleased with your progress." Harry did not miss the word "most;" he wondered how Snape had described his "progress." "Are you enjoying them?"

"They're alright," Harry replied shortly. It was true enough (with a few exceptions). There were times he almost did enjoy them. But he missed the quiet, stress-free sessions he had spent with Remus in Sussex. Dumbledore looked at him with an expression Harry found very odd. It seemed torn between pitying and...satisfied? Pleased? Smug? He couldn't read it at all.

"With the other students coming this evening, it will mean yet another transition for you. Are you nervous?

Harry gave a small shrug; it was the only response he would be giving this man. His fragile chain of trust only went so far, after all.

Dumbledore nodded as though he understood perfectly, however. "I'm sure you'll be fine. It will be good for you to be meeting people of your own age."

Harry gritted his teeth but kept quiet. He was getting so sick of people telling him what was good for him. Dumbledore studied him with a light smile playing infuriatingly on his lips as though, once again, he knew exactly what Harry was thinking. Harry found he hated this fact even more. It reminded him of the Sorting Hat routing around in his head uninvited. Dumbledore turned away, stopping to look out over the icy lake before them.

"Harry. I've been wanting to speak with you for some time, now. I realise how stressful the past few weeks must have been for you. I'm sure leaving your home to come here was very upsetting." _He talks like it was my choice,_ Harry thought, breathing in hard through his nose to calm himself. "And I fear," Dumbledore continued, "that when we met in the Ministry that day, I may have made it all harder for you. I've been wanting to apologise to you for that." This caught Harry off-guard, and he stared at the man before him. "I was so busy worrying about what had happened to you in the past, I forgot to worry about what was happening you to you in the present. And for that, I'm truly sorry." Harry was surprised to see that he truly did look sorry. They began walking again, Harry still silent—listening.

"You have to understand, the shock, the confusion. After all those years of believing you to be dead, to find that you were alive. You have to understand why we would have questions." A warning sign began flashing in Harry's brain before he had even had time to process this all, but Dumbledore was continuing. "No one wants to make you talk about anything you're not ready to talk about, Harry. But there are certain...issues...that need resolving. How you came to leave your aunt and uncles house, for example." Harry stopped dead in his tracks, suddenly understanding where all this was going, and Dumbledore followed suit, turning to look at him with a serious expression. "If you were kidnapped by the Death Eaters, I hope you'll appreciate how important that information could be to us." Harry did not know who he meant by "us," but he found he really didn't care.

Harry's jaw was beginning to ache and Harry realised it was because he was clenching it. He forced himself to relax, and he met Dumbledore's eye with a flat look. "Thank you for the apology, Sir. It's appreciated," he said, pretending not to understand what Dumbledore was getting at. "It's nearly nine. I have to get to Defence Against the Dark Arts."

"I'm sure Remus will understand if you are a little late," Dumbledore said lightly.

"Best not," Harry replied. "He's caught a grindylow especially for the lesson. Good day, Sir." And with that, Harry turned away, and headed back to the castle. Dumbledore watched him go, but if he was disappointed or angry or offended, he didn't show it.

* * *

**That evening,** Harry lay on his bed, once again indulging in what had become one of his favourite pastimes: staring blankly at the glistening stars in the canopy above his head. From below him, he could hear the distant sounds of hundreds of feet pounding the floor, hundreds of lips chattering excitedly, laughing, grumbling in an incomprehensible blanket of commotion. He rolled over on his side, drawing his knees to his chest and pressing his right eye to his patella in combat to the rising headache.

Hundreds. There would be hundreds of people crammed into the hall right now. Hundreds of pairs of eyes itching for something to glue onto. Hundreds of mouths waiting to burst into gossip about something. He had no desire to go down for dinner tonight. He usually didn't, but his convictions were at their fiercest tonight. He would not go through that. Not like this. He refused. Remus was not going to like it, but he would just have to deal.

As if on cue, a knock sounded on his bedroom door. Harry stretched himself out from the curled foetal position and glued his eyes to the stars again before he let out a soft "Come in."

Remus opened the door and stepped inside, surveying Harry thoughtfully. Harry noted that he was wearing his best set of robes (ones only slightly patched and frayed.)

Remus surveyed him quietly for a moment before breaking the silence. "The other students have arrived," Remus told him, unnecessarily as a girl's screeching laugh carried up to them from the Entrance Hall below. Harry said nothing. There was nothing to say.

"Dinner is in ten minutes. You'll be expected to be in your school robes," Remus added, eyeing the determinedly Muggle clothes that Harry was sporting. Still Harry simply surveyed the canopy. He really couldn't think of anything to say. There was no way to say it. Remus would be hurt, and Harry would feel guilty. No. Best to stay silent.

Remus sighed and moved over to the wardrobe, opened it and pulled out a black robe which Harry had never touched. "You might as well get used to wearing it," Remus continued. You're going to need to for classes." Harry sat up on the bed to watch him digging through the clothes.

Remus was babbling. Talking nervously, saying any inconsequential thing that came into his head. _He knows_, thought Harry. _He knows that I'm not going to give in on this one. He knows I'm not coming down._

"Which undershirt do you like better? The one with the collar or the one without?" he was asking now.

"Remus," Harry interrupted him, as gently as he could. "I'm not coming to dinner."

There was silence. Harry could not see Remus's face; he was standing with his back to him, facing into the wardrobe. But he was perfectly still, his shoulders stiff.

Slowly, very slowly, Remus lay down the two shirts he had just extracted and turned to face Harry. He had on an expression of resigned regret. Harry was sorry to be the cause of that expression on the face of one of the only men who had ever been kind to him. But his resolve would not waver. He would not let it.

Remus looked at Harry for a moment, eyes solemn, then moved across the room to sit on the bed next to him. He sat with elbows propped on his knees, hands clasped together, eyes on the floor.

"I hate to think of you living your life like this," Remus said finally after a long pause. His voice was low and serious. "You can't spend the rest of your life alone, pretending like no one else exists. Please, Harry," Remus finally turned to look at him directly, but Harry found he could not meet his eye. "Come down. You might even enjoy yourself. You might even make some friends."

Later when he would look back at this moment, Harry would not be sure what made him lose his temper with Remus—perhaps it was the dull ache pulsing behind his right eye, perhaps it was the similarity of the comment to what Dumbledore had said earlier. It was a simple enough phrase. He had never had a friend, but he understood it was something most people craved. Something normal people cared about. But he wasn't normal. He would never be normal. And that fact pressed into his heart hard enough to bruise and suddenly his anger was rising up. His anger at the Ministry, his anger at Dumbledore, his anger all those students he had never met who were now happily chatting somewhere beneath him. His anger at life for making him abnormal. Harry let out a growl and threw himself off the bed. He began pacing around the room, grabbing various items and thrusting them into his trunk. They were moving him to the house dormitories that night anyway. He might as well start packing and give himself something to do with his hands at the same time.

"Listen, Remus," even Harry was surprised by how harsh his voice sounded. "I'm not here to make friends. I'll serve my six months, I'll listen to the lectures and study the books and practice the wand movements, but that's it. After that, count me out; it wasn't part of the deal. I'm not going to go around pretending to be something I'm not. I'm not going to go down there and smile and make polite chitchat with a bunch of gawkers. I'm not doing it. You people might have me stuck here for now, but you don't control my life. I choose my own path. Me. And I choose it without reference to you or to the Ministry or to Dumbledore or to anyone else!"

He picked up a dirty sock from the floor and turned around to find its partner. It was at that point that his eyes met Remus's and guilt began to crush his lungs. Remus was sitting straight up now, his mouth slightly ajar as though mid-word, his breathing seemed laboured, and his eyes— oh, God, his eyes—he looked like he was fighting back tears.

Harry had meant what he said. He didn't regret saying it, or so he told himself, but he could have been a little better in his choice of words. Remus had been good to him. He had given him food and clothing and shelter and—dare he think it?—love? And here Harry was, telling him they weren't friends, accusing him of essentially kidnapping him and bringing him here to serve a sentence like a criminal. He had grouped Remus in with the Ministry and made their thoughts and actions one and the same. But they weren't. Were they? Harry could not imagine Remus ever being so underhand and exploitive as the Ministry was. They couldn't want the same things, surely. Remus always insisted he wanted what was best for Harry, but then why did it always feel so wrong here? Why couldn't he trust him? A part of him—a part which seemed to be growing every day—wanted to. But he just couldn't.

And so Harry stood there, staring at Remus with Remus staring right back. Neither of them said anything. Neither of them could. After a moment Remus let out his breath, stood from the bed and walked over to the door. Harry watched him go, feeling like he should stop him, apologise or at least clarify what he had meant, but he didn't know what he meant and he didn't know if he was sorry. So he simply stood there and watched as Remus opened the door.

Halfway through the door Remus paused. He drew a deep breath and turned his head over his shoulder, but he did not look at Harry. "It's a very lonely one—this path you've chosen. I hope one day you'll realise that it doesn't have to be that way. And I hope you realise it before it's too late to change course."

And with that, Remus closed the door, leaving a very miserable and confused Harry alone.

Alone. His natural state.

* * *

**Neville Longbottom** helped himself to the roasted chicken, the rich smell wafting toward him making his mouth water. He'd missed this food while he'd been away for the holidays. His grandmother was many things, but a good cook was not really one of them. Around him, the air was thick with the sounds of talking and laughter as the students all reunited after their month apart.

Neville did not indulge in this particular pursuit. He rarely did. Instead he sat quietly and watched and listened to the incomprehensible rumble of three hundred voices melding together. Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas were sitting opposite him and Ron Weasley was to his right. The three of them were leaned in toward each other in an effort to hear over the hubbub; Ron and Dean were sniggering at a rather crude story Seamus was telling them. Neville had heard enough to know it was not worth the effort to try to listen. He turned his attention to the conversation on his opposite side, taking a large bite of mashed potatoes as he did so. Hermione Granger was discussing Cross-Species Transfiguration with Ginny Weasley. This conversation might have been more interesting to him were it not for the fact that the technicalities went way over his head.

"Well, _I_ don't believe it." George Weasley's voice cut across the din, loud enough to make half of Gryffindor table turn toward him.

"That's what Kenneth Towler said," Lee Jordan defended. "He stayed here over Christmas, and he said He turned up in the middle of hols. Said He's been having private lessons with the professors." Neville wasn't entirely sure why, but the way Lee was articulating the word 'he' made him sure that the word should be capitalised.

"Well, there's your problem," Fred Weasley replied. "You're getting your information from Towler. He always was a bit of an idiot."

The three were talking so loudly that much of the table had ceased their conversations to listen in to their debate and several people sniggered at Fred's remark. Lee Jordan was looking affronted that the Weasley twins didn't believe him. "It wasn't just Towler! Patricia Stimpson was here too. And that Carmichael bloke from Hufflepuff said the same."

"So where is He then?" said Fred.

"Wouldn't He be here if He were a student at Hogwarts now?" said George.

"I don't see Him anywhere," said Fred.

"How am I supposed to know where He is?" replied Lee. "I'm just telling you what I heard."

"Oi! Fred! George!" Ron called to his brothers over Neville; the shout made his ear hurt. "What are you lot on about? Who's here?"

"Lee here recons Harry Potter is starting classes at Hogwarts this term," George called back.

"Load of dragon dung, if you ask me," said Fred. "Just another stupid rumour in response to all the tosh the Daily Prophet has been publishing. They probably just found some poor kid who happens to have a scar on his forehead from an unfortunate haircut-gone-wrong."

Load of dragon dung or not, the words had an intense effect upon the surrounding students. All down the house tables, groups of students were leaning in whispering together, and suddenly any student who had happened to have remained at school over the holidays was immensely popular.

Neville gave it little thought. He supposed he would find out soon enough if there was any truth to the rumours. He turned back to his chicken, listening with one ear as Hermione began excitedly reciting a list of books she had read that contained mention of Harry Potter, and Ron began boasting about some uncle or other who had known the Potter family during the War. If it was true that Harry Potter was here, Neville could not help but feel very sorry for him. Neville knew how people talked at Hogwarts; he supposed it would be a long time before Potter would find any semblance of peace here.

Dinner was cleared away to be replaced by pudding and still people gossiped away about the rumoured addition to the student body. Students began trickling out on their way up to their dormitories. After a bit, Seamus, Dean, and Ron all stood from the benches and extracted themselves from the Gryffindor table, and Neville followed suit.

The four boys made their way up the Grand Staircase in the direction of Gryffindor Tower. Neville walked along beside the other three, but not really with them. They paid him little mind, and Neville was not particularly bothered by the fact; in many ways he preferred it—being left to listen and observe undisturbed. Other times, however, he was envious of how close the three were, and he could not help but to compare himself to them; he had never really fit in with anyone like that.

They emerged on the seventh floor and turned a corner to find the Fat Lady staring down at them.

"Balderdash," said Dean, and Neville was very glad that he was with someone who remembered the password. After a month away, there was no way he would have remembered what it was, had he been on his own.

After scrambling through the portrait hole, Neville nearly falling as he caught his foot on the Fat Lady's frame, the four of them made their way up the spiral staircase to the boy's dormitories. They had passed a few people mingling in the Common Room, but most seemed eager to get up to bed. _They're not alone_, thought Neville as he yawned widely. His eyes scrunched shut as his yawn stretched wide enough that he thought he might dislodge his jaw. It was thus that he walked straight into Ron's back as they entered the fourth year dormitory.

Ron had stopped dead just inside the door. Seamus and Dean were ahead of him and they had done the same, and their chatter had broken off abruptly. Neville looked around, trying to figure out what had caused the abrupt change in his companions. It took him a moment to understand. _Surely not..._ He did a quick count to be sure. Five. There were now five beds positioned around the circular dormitory. Previously there had only ever been four. All eyes were fixed on the addition to the room. It was the same as all the others: the same old four-poster, the same velvet hangings, the same deep red bedclothes. At the foot of the new bed sat a trunk, the only indication that it was claimed.

"Whose do you think it is," Dean's voice hesitantly broke the silence after a bit.

"Obvious, isn't it?" scoffed Seamus. "Whose else could it be? It's gotta be _his_."

"There could be a new student...transferred from a different school?" Dean said, but Neville could see he didn't believe his own words.

"How many times have you ever seen a new students start here midterm?" Seamus countered.

"And Harry Potter would be about our age," said Ron in an awed hush. "I remember when I was little, Mum once mentioned that he'd be in the same year as me."

"I'm just saying we shouldn't jump to any conclusions," replied Dean defensively. "Maybe it's nothing...just a fluke."

"What? The bed just appeared here for no reason?" sneered Seamus.

Neville chewed his lip thoughtfully. He thought Dean had a point, but he was hardly about to put himself in the middle of this bickering. He tuned out the sounds of his three roommates tiff and eyed the bed as though expecting it to speak up at any moment and explain everything.

"Well, there's one way to find out," Seamus's voice broke through his reverie. He made his way determinedly over to the bed and knelt down beside the trunk. His hands were undoing the latch before Neville even realised what he was doing.

"Stop!" Neville almost shouted before the filter in his brain could tell him that he was better off staying out of it. "You can't just go through his things!"

"Leave off. I'm just going to have a look," said Seamus, rolling his eyes. "Honestly, Neville. Man up for once in your life."

"How would you like it if _I_ started snooping through _your_ trunk?" Neville asked, his voice starting to shake as all the eyes in the room rested on him. He was not at all comfortable with all this attention, but he knew he was right.

"You go through my stuff, Longbottom, and you'll be down with a case of Bat-Bogies, faster than you blew up that cauldron in potions last month," Seamus said, standing up and facing Neville down, the mysterious trunk forgotten for the time being.

Seamus looked angry. Neville only just had the time to wonder why he never seemed to learn his lesson and just keep his mouth shut, before a soft clearing of the throat diverted everyone's attention away from him. Neville also turned toward the sound which had originated in the direction of the door.

A boy stood before them, eyeing each of them in turn. He was short and skinny with a pale, thin face framed by messy, black hair. Most notable of all, right over a pair of bright green eyes, rested a delicate, white scar in the shape of a lightning bolt. All four of the Gryffindor fourth-years gaped at him.

There was complete silence in the room; Neville wasn't even sure anyone was breathing—he wasn't sure _he_ was breathing. Harry Potter merely stood silently and stared right back at them defiantly. Neville was not at all sure how long this went on before the hush was broken.

"You're...you're Harry Potter," Ron blurted out. Potter's eyes travelled over to Ron and looked him up and down. He did not say anything and Ron's ears began to go red. Dean was the first to regain his senses.

"Er...I'm Dean," he said awkwardly, holding out his hand to Potter. Potter looked at it for a moment before slowly reaching out to shake it. "This is Ron, Seamus, and Neville," Dean went on, gesturing to each of them in turn. Neville managed a timid "hello" when Potter's eyes met his. Still Potter said nothing.

An awkward silence fell again. No one seemed to know what to say. Potter was still in the doorway, still looking at them, still saying nothing.

"Is it true you've been locked in a Death Eater dungeon for the past four years?" The words came falling out of Seamus's mouth so abruptly they made Neville jump. A frown creased Potter's brow, and he eyed Seamus with his jaw clenched.

"That's not what I heard," Ron jumped in, taking Seamus's question as licence to ask his own. "I heard you were being trained by them—trained to be a Death Eater." His tone was both excited and apprehensive at the same time.

"Where're you getting your information, Ron? _The Quibbler_?" Seamus snorted.

"You guys are both being ridiculous," scoffed Dean. He faked his own death to get the Death Eaters to stop looking for him after he escaped, didn't you?" he added turning to Potter. Then, without waiting for a response, he continued knowledgeably, "It was in the _Daily Prophet_ last week."

A whole new squabble was breaking out between the three and still Potter stood there at the entrance to the room. Neville thought he looked supremely uncomfortable.

Before he'd even considered what he was doing, Neville was opening his mouth again, and he said, just loud enough for everyone to hear him, "Can't you at least let him all the way through the door before you start assaulting him with questions, especially if you can't even be bothered to wait for the answers?" Abruptly all eyes turned to him, and Neville felt his cheeks warm. But when his eyes met Harry's, he thought he caught the barest trace of a nod of gratitude.

"Is that one mine?" Harry asked after another moment's awkward silence, nodding in the direction of the newly acquired bed. It was the first thing he had said since entering the room. His voice was soft and low; not like Seamus's or Ron's at all.

"Oh! Er...yeah, seems to be," said Neville, when he understood what was being asked. Harry walked over to the bed, and all four of the other Gryffindors quickly stepped back to make way for him.

"So..." said Dean, awkwardly striving to break the silence. "Harry...Been at Hogwarts long?"

"Depends how you define 'long'," replied Harry, unhelpfully. He detangled himself from a small shoulder bag and laid it on the bed.

Dean did not seem to know how to respond to that so he just went on. "How are you liking it here so far?"

"It meets expectations," said Harry, now studying the bed and the red velvet hangings.

Dean opened his mouth and closed it, seemingly out of things to say. No one else seemed to be able to come up with anything either. Neville figured it was time to leave Harry to settle in and he made his way over to his trunk to extract his pyjamas. Ron, Seamus, and Dean had not moved and were still watching Harry's every move.

Harry determinedly ignored them as he settled himself onto his bed, leaning his head back against the head board and staring up at the velvet canopy, apparently lost in thought. After a bit, he seemed to remember the others. He reached over and pulled the drapes shut around his bed. They heard the sounds of him settling himself under the covers before all was still. They neither saw nor heard any movement from within for the rest of the night.

After a bit, the others began readying themselves for bed too. Neville was the last up, and it was with one last look at the closed curtains of the next bed over that he blew out the final candle and crawled into the covers, letting out a sigh as he felt his muscles relaxing into the mattress.

* * *

**A/N:** I'm so sorry you had to wait so long. Thank you all for being so understanding and thanks for all the vet-school-related well wishes. You guys are so sweet. School has been a blast so far, but they definitely keep us busy.

Anyway, sorry for the long wait, and I wish I could have had a more exciting chapter to come back with...it's coming, I swear...just not quite yet. This will have to do for now. At least you now know where the title of the story came from.

On another note, I've been getting a lot of questions that are all variations of the same theme, so I feel like I should address it now, once and for all. The questions are all along the lines of, "So what about... (insert any one or all of the following:)  
The Philosopher's Stone, the Chamber of Secrets, the Tri-Wizard Tournament, the curse on the Defence Against the Dark Arts Post (how has Remus been able to keep his job for a second year?), etc, etc, etc."

The answer to all of these is the same: This story is not cannon.

I'm very sorry I cannot give you a more satisfying answer, but there it is. If you really want a story that is entirely consistent with the originals, I suggest you turn to my other story. As for this one, I had a plot line in my head and I kept the things that supported it and chocked off the things that didn't. All of these issues from the books were great and all, but they just don't have a place in my story.

When I first started coming up with the idea for A Lonely Path, I considered all of them. Originally, I had intended that if someone asked, I would give them a copout answer like, "Oh, Quirrell couldn't get the Stone out of the mirror so Dumbledore arrived early enough to stop him," or "Since Harry wasn't there, Lucius didn't have as much incentive to open the Chamber." But I hadn't really counted on just how many people were going to be asking about this and challenging me on it. So, my pathetic excuses seemed a little insulting to your intelligence. So there's the truth: I'm pretty much ignoring everything that's inconvenient here. Hope you don't find it too bothersome.

In conclusion, thank you faithful readers, for coming back to me after a month and a half of no updates, and thank you for looking the other way when there are plot holes. Not sure when I'll be able to update next, but I promise to do my best. Please review; there is nothing in the world more encouraging to me than a note from you guys.

Baguette


	17. 16 Secrets Confessed and Concealed

**Chapter 16  
Of Secrets Confessed and Secrets Concealed**

**The second** hand ticked forward once. Then again. And again. Harry sat on a large rock on the shore of the lake, not far from the edge of the forest. He had deserted his cove; far too many people knew of that place now. The boulder here was well hidden from view by tall rushes—the only way someone was going to find him here was if they tripped over him. Still, the rock was much colder than his fallen tree. And much harder. He shifted uncomfortably.

Transferring his gaze from his watch temporarily, Harry determinedly studied the mountains rising above the lake on the horizon. There was one that stood out against the others. It was taller than the low, smooth peaks of its fellows, and the snow blanketing its craggy summit was broken by strange rocky outcroppings. Harry found himself feeling sorry for it; it was tough being different. And then Harry realised just how different _he_ must be if he was feeling sorry for a non-sentient hunk of rock.

He turned his attention back to his watch. The minute hand clicked into place on the number four. Eight twenty. Ten minutes. He had ten minutes left before he had to join his new class in the greenhouses.

Harry had risen before the others in his dormitory that morning. Part of this was habit, but most of it was cowardice; Harry had no desire for a repeat performance of the previous night's dramatics. But now as his watch showed 8:21, he knew he could delay it no longer. Gathering up his bag, he stood up straight and took a deep, determined breath and glanced at the mountain as though drawing courage from it. He began trudging toward the greenhouses.

He had timed it perfectly. Professor Sprout's fly-away hair had just disappeared through the greenhouse door when he came into view, and the minute hand had struck 8:30 just as he opened the door himself. The usual silence fell as Harry entered, but as it occurred just as Professor Sprout called for order, the effect was dampened. Harry slipped into the only available work-station, one next to a girl with a long red braid down her back, and while all the eyes in the room followed him there, most of them at least pretended to listen to Professor Sprout's instructions regarding the harvesting techniques of Snargaluff pods.

"Now, you will work in pairs for this exercise," Professor Sprout was saying. "One of you will have to restrain the vines while the other extracts the pods. Wear your dragon-hide gloves; those thorns can do some nasty damage if you're not careful. And remember: the juice is most effective when fresh, so be sure to milk the pods as soon as you have them out."

Upon being released to begin their work, Harry half turned toward his bench partner, but he could not seem to bring himself to quite meet her eye. "Would you rather restrain or extract?" he asked. His tone was uncharacteristically gruff. A guilty voice in his head chastised him for being rude, but he could not bring himself to waste energy in being polite to these gawkers.

"Um...I don't mind either way. You pick." Her voice, by contrast, was soft and timid, and as Harry forced himself to finally look at her face, he saw a blush creeping up her cheeks. Abruptly he felt very sorry for this girl who had been forced to work with the class freak. After class, the other students would probably be bombarding her with questions about everything he had said or done during the lesson.

"Here." He approached the gnarled stump before them and several vines shot out at him in response to the threat. "I'll hold for you," he told the girl before launching himself at the vines. He took hold of two of the branches firmly and retracted them down toward the ground, trapping a third as best he could with his foot. He was soon out of breath as he fought against the thrashing as the plant attempted to break his grip. Across the room, he saw one of the boys he had met the night before (_What was his name? Neville?_), fly across the room as his Snargaluff threw him off.

But the red-haired girl was quick and she dove her hand into a hole which had opened in the stump and extracted a strange, pulsating green pod. Immediately, the briars Harry was battling retreated into the stump. Harry stumbled as the vines abruptly disappeared from his grasp and looked over at the girl who gave him a small triumphant smile as she pulled a small knife from her pruning kit. She pierced the pod with her knife and unpleasant, green tubers spilled out, wriggling and squirming in the bowl where she emptied them.

"I'm Susan, by the way," the girl told him. "Susan Bones." The last name tugged at Harry's memory, but he could not think where he had heard it before.

"Harry," he replied unnecessarily. He didn't know what else to do. If he didn't introduce himself, he seemed rude and arrogant, but if he did, he seemed stupid. It was a lose-lose situation. But Susan did not make a joke about it or even acknowledge the significance of the name. Just gave him a smile and returned her eyes to the pod, wringing the last bit of juice from it before casting it aside to land on a pile of compost.

"I heard about you before you came here, you know," Susan said after a long pause, stepping forward to prod the stump with her foot, inciting it to shoot out its briars once again.

_I take it back_, thought Harry. He didn't feel sorry for this girl in the slightest.

"I heard about what happened in the Ministry, I mean," the girl clarified, oblivious to the darkening of Harry's face as her eyes followed one of the hostile vines. "My Auntie Amelia is the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement." Abruptly, Harry remembered why the name 'Bones' had seemed familiar. He recalled that day at the Ministry, just before they had left, a square-jawed witch with close-cropped grey hair and a monocle had come out to talk to Dumbledore about his responsibilities in taking custody of Harry. Harry still didn't understand why she had been addressing Dumbledore instead of Remus, but he had been too distracted to ask as he had been full of indignation that the woman had actually had Dumbledore sign for him. Sing for him! Like a package in the post! Still she had smiled at Harry kindly before she had departed—something no one else had bothered to do that day.

"She told me that the Aurors had taken you in for questioning," Susan continued. "That must have been horrible."

"Well, it wasn't fun," replied Harry darkly. He moved toward the Snargaluff again. He found he really wanted to wring something at that moment, and he figured it may as well be the plant.

Susan studied him for a moment. "I haven't told anyone about it," she assured him. "Auntie told me in the strictest confidence, and I would never betray that."

Harry looked at her, cocking his head to the side. He wasn't entirely sure what to make of this girl. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before finally he said, softening, "Thank you." And with that he turned back to the task at hand: taking out his pent-up aggression on the Snargaluff.

.

After class, several students converged on Susan Bones. Harry watched them surreptitiously as they filed out of the greenhouse and up toward the castle for lunch. Whispered questions were shot in Susan's direction, and while Harry could not hear the exact words, their tone told him exactly the topic of their queries. Harry was quite impressed, however, when Susan merely shrugged, gave a vague answer and then changed the subject to what would be served for lunch that day. The other students began to disperse, some grumbling to each other.

Harry followed the other students up to the castle quietly, hanging back from the crowd. A boy with a rather pompous air about him attempted to engage Harry in conversation, but Harry was so short with him, the boy soon broke off to join Susan who was now laughing merrily with a round-faced girl with blond pigtails.

As they entered the Great Hall, Harry looked up to the head table. He was almost ashamed to admit it to himself, but he wanted to see Remus quite bitterly. He had not seen the man since their row the night before, and Harry was desperately anxious to see if Remus would bear a grudge over it. But Remus was not there. Harry scanned the head table to be sure, but his eyes only met with Dumbledore's who looked at him with that strangely knowing expression Harry hated so much. Disappointed, Harry followed the other Gryffindors to what he supposed was the Gryffindor House table.

Over a lunch of shepherd's pie, Harry engaged in a half-hearted conversation with a bushy-haired girl who had introduced herself as Hermione Granger. Hermione spoke remarkably fast and seldom seemed to require much by way of response, something which suited Harry just fine as his attention was focused on the door, waiting for Remus to come through to lunch.

Twenty minutes later, Harry's plate was clean, and Remus still had not arrived. Harry excused himself from the table—Hermione, who had been in mid-sentence, looked a little disappointed—and made his way to the door from the Great Hall, thinking vaguely that there was still ten minutes before he was expected in Transfiguration—surely that was enough time to check and see if Remus was in his office. His plans were halted, however, as he arrived at the door into the Entrance Hall just at the same moment as another.

"Ah, Harry. How convenient. I have been charged with a message for you." The headmaster smiled down at Harry, his blue eyes twinkling. "Remus asked me to tell you he regrets that he will have to cancel your usual private lesson this evening. He is a bit under the weather, I'm afraid."

Harry felt his heart drop to his stomach. "Oh, nothing serious, I am sure," Dumbledore hastened to assure him, catching sight of Harry's face. "I'm certain he will happily resume your sessions in a day or two when he is feeling better."

"Of course," Harry said, trying to collect himself. "Thank you, sir." Before Dumbledore could say anymore, Harry turned and half fled up the stairs, not heading anywhere in particular, but simply aware that he needed to be alone. He felt Dumbledore's eyes on his back as he went.

After traversing several corridors and getting himself hopelessly turned about, Harry sank down in an alcove in an empty hallway, tucking his knees up to his chest. _You're being stupid_, Harry told himself. _He's not avoiding you. He's ill. Just as Dumbledore said._ But as much as he said it, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that Dumbledore had not been entirely truthful with him, just then. And Harry's injured self-esteem could think of only one other explanation for why Remus wouldn't be there.

_He hates me_, Harry thought._ He's angry over that stupid row. Why couldn't I have just gone down to that bloody dinner like he'd asked me to?_

_Stop it! _a forceful voice in his head scolded him. _He's ill! Stop being so egocentric. This has nothing to do with you._

Harry sighed, resting his head on his knees. Maybe he was ill. Maybe it was all in his head. Remus had been looking a bit poorly when he had come to his room the night before. Come to think of it, for several days now he had been looking like he hadn't been sleeping well. He really must be ill.

Harry's heart lightened a bit at the thought before it plummeted back down, and he groaned to himself. Was he seriously trying to comfort himself with the thought that one of the only men he had ever looked to as a friend might be sick? He was disgusted with himself. Remus would not have cancelled their lesson unless he was truly unwell, and here Harry was, hoping it was the case!

Harry sighed and glanced at his watch—that cursed ticking watch. He was going to be late for Transfiguration. He didn't doubt that Professor McGonagall would have a few words to say on that score. And so it was that, with a lead feeling in his stomach, Harry stood up, brushed off his robes, and set about trying to find his way to the Transfiguration room.

* * *

**The rest of** the day passed uneventfully enough barring a brief mishap in Charms when Neville Longbottom had accidentally conjured an Erumpent while attempting a Supersensory Charm. The Erumpent promptly began systematically destroying the Charms classroom, sending students ducking for cover under desks. Professor Flitwick dealt with it quickly enough, however, and set Neville the task of writing an essay describing what had gone wrong.

Neville's ears were still pink when they sat down to dinner half an hour later. Some of the other students were shooting jibes at him, but Harry simply said that it was a very impressive bit of magic and if Neville could learn to control it, he was sure no one would ever bother him again. That shut everyone up—well, most of them had never heard Harry talk, so perhaps that was not surprising—and Neville's ears went even more pink, but this time, his expression was rather pleased. The rest of the meal was passed in silence but when Neville got up to leave, he gave Harry a timid smile which Harry was surprised to find himself returning.

.

Harry did not follow his fellow fourth years back to Gryffindor Tower. He left slightly after them, a bowl of soup clutched in his hand, carefully concealed by the jacket he had slung over his arm. He didn't know if they were allowed to take food out of the Great Hall, but his childhood had taught him not to ask in case they weren't.

He made his way up to the second floor, walking slowly so as not to spill. Bright moonlight streamed in from the narrow windows of the corridor. He stopped outside of Remus's office door and took a deep breath. He just wanted to see him. Just wanted to make sure he was alright and wasn't angry with him. That was all. After that he could go away perfectly contented and leave Remus to rest and recover.

_But what if he_ is_ angry?_ a voice in his head spoke up. _What if he doesn't want to see me?_

_Well, then, let him tell me so to my face!_ Harry thought. _Then at least I'll know._

With one more deep breath, Harry rapped on the door. He waited. Nothing. Maybe he was in the hospital wing? He knocked again, a little louder this time. Again there was no answer, but this time Harry was sure he heard something from inside. A rustling as though someone had moved over to listen at the door. There was someone in there, he was sure of it.

"Remus?" Harry called through the door. "Are you there?" Still there was no answer. Harry was frustrated now. All he wanted to do was talk to the man! Was that too much to ask? He rattled the doorknob annoyed, but it was locked. "I brought you some dinner," Harry called. At that, a very strange noise sounded from the other side of the door: a soft snuffling as though a large dog was trying to smell around the cracks of the door. Harry took a step back in shock. Remus had never mentioned having any pets. Could this be some strange wizarding security device? Was Remus so angry that he might sick some kind of monster on Harry or something?

He took another step back. "I'll just…er…leave it here for you outside the door…in case you…get hungry," Harry called, distracted by the fact that the snuffling sound seemed to have moved up from the crack between the door and the floor to a point somewhere near the doorknob. And with that, he set the soup down on the ground near the door and fled in the direction of Gryffindor Tower.

As he was walking back briskly (briskly because he had a lot of studying to do…not because there was some unknown monster who wanted to eat him, he told himself) he felt a prickling in his eyes and a weight in his gut. He'd ruined everything. Remus was mad at him—the only person who had ever truly accepted Harry, and he had gone and spoiled everything.

_STOP IT!_ Harry turned and sank his fist into rock wall beside him, earning himself several very sore, very bloody knuckles. _You're going soft! What happened to you? What happened to needing no one? To relying on no one but yourself? He's just one person. One person you managed just fine without before and you'll manage just fine without now. So what if he's angry with you? Let him be! Why should you care? It's better this way. It will make it all the easier when it's time to leave next June. Everything will be able to go back to the way it was._

Harry took a deep breath, stretching the stiff fingers of his now freely bleeding hand. He rested his palm on the cool stones of the wall shortly followed by his forehead. _I know_, he replied to himself dejectedly_. I know. It was just…nice while it lasted_.

The other part of his brain did not seem to have any response to that. It had been nice while it lasted.

Harry wasn't sure how long he stood there, his forehead and aching hand pressed against the wall. The stones were cool and soothing.

* * *

**Remus groaned.** The stones were cool and uncomfortable. His face was plastered to the hard floor before the hearth. He stretched his cramped limbs out from where they were curled against his body and rolled onto his back, feeling his spine crack in protest. He sucked his breath in with a hiss as his naked body made contact with the icy floor. The fire had been reduced to cinders and a few glowing embers. He groaned again as he forced himself to his feet.

Stiffly, he moved to the wall and grasped a warm robe he hung there for exactly this purpose. He wrapped it around himself tightly as he turned back, surveying the room blearily. Morning winter sunlight was streaming in the window, illuminating specks of dust floating about in the air. He ran his fingers through his greying hair and down to massage his aching neck, smacking his lips a few time in attempt to expel the cottony taste on his tongue.

Laboriously making his way back toward the fire, he extracted his wand from its place on the mantle where he always left it for safe-keeping on the full moon. He pointed it at the fire and said, "Incendio." The word came out as a hoarse croak, but a fire sprang to life in the grate.

He turned toward his favourite chair and sank into it, a whimpering sigh of relief escaping his mouth as he stretched out. He was extremely grateful for the Wolfsbane Potion, but he prayed that someday there would be advancements enough to the potion that he would be able to remember to sleep on the bed when he was in his wolf form. He was getting way too old to be sleeping on a stone floor.

He let out a sigh and lazily watched the flames flickering, their warm glow penetrating his frozen bones. He wiggled his toes in an attempt to bring some life back into them. He heaved himself up to glance around for his slippers, but he immediately caught sight of some scraps and stuffing in the far corner of the room. Now if they could make advancements in the Wolfsbane that would remind his wolf-self that slippers are not toys, then they'd really be in business. He settled back into his chair. Fat chance. Slipper-demolishing was his favourite pastime when in wolf form.

Remus closed his eyes lazily relaxing every muscle in his body. His stomach growled. He was hungry. He hoped the house elf would come soon with his breakfast. He could really use some—

His thoughts cut short. Something was tugging at his brain, ordering him to remember. But what? He opened his eyes and looked around again, trying to jog his memory. The tugging continued and would not let him go; he needed to remember...what was it he needed to remember? Something had happened last night. He covered his eyes with the palms of his hands, pressing until he saw starbursts of light, trying to remember. The Wolfsbane certainly helped him maintain mental clarity, but it was still an effort to remember anything that occurred while he was in wolf form.

CRACK!

Remus jumped so high he nearly fell out of his chair. His sore back screamed in protest. Disoriented he looked around wildly.

"Good mornings, sir!" Remus sank back into his seat as his heart rate returned to normal.

"Oh. Good morning, Ninkey," Remus sighed.

"Ninkey is bringing Professor Sir breakfast, sir!"

"Thank you. I appreciate it. If you could just set it there on the desk."

"Certainly, sir," the house elf replied, making her way over to the desk. As she passed, the rich smell of sausages wafted over to Remus, and his mouth began to water. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, appreciating the aroma of cooked meat. Abruptly, a switch flipped in his brain, and he jerked his head to stare at the firmly shut door which led out into the hall and the rest of the castle.

"Would sir like Ninkey to pour the coffee, sir?" a squeaky voice broke into his reverie.

"What? Oh. No," replied Remus distractedly. "Er...thank you, Ninkey. That will be all."

"Very good, sir!" And with another CRACK, she was gone.

Remus sat very still for a moment after she left, his attention still completely on the door. Slowly he stood and made his way over to the door. He unbolted it and paused with his hand resting on the knob. He took a shaky breath and flung open the door. There was no one there—which was probably a good thing, given that he was still dressed only in his shabby old dressing gown. He hesitantly took a stiff, shuffling step out to look down the hall and his foot made contact with something that clinked softly. He looked to the floor and let out a sigh. Harry. Crouching down, Remus picked up the congealing mess that he suspected had once been some kind of beef and vegetable stew.

After closing the door, Remus leaned back against it staring down at the bowl in his hand. He remembered now. Harry had been here. He had smelt his scent through the door. That and the smell of cooked meat.

After a moment, Remus pushed off the door frame and moved over to the desk. Depositing the cold bowl of soup on the desk top with a clatter, Remus reached for the coffee pot. After pouring himself a cup his hand lingered for a moment over the cream before he decided to take it black. He walked back to his chair, all thoughts of hunger forgotten, and seated himself to nurse his coffee and stare into the flames.

Harry had been here. Last night, Harry was here. Could he suspect something? No. Impossible. He couldn't have seen anything—the door had been bolted shut. No, there was no way Harry could have made the connection after just one full moon. Harry didn't know.

_But you could tell him_, a small voice in his head spoke up. No, Harry had been through enough already. He needed constancy, stability; Remus couldn't just spring this on him like that. Harry wouldn't understand—he _couldn't _understand.

_He won't understand it when he figures it out for himself, either._

_I need more time! _he argued back. _Harry still doesn't fully trust me. Our relationship is still too new, too fragile._

_Let's be honest. This isn't about Harry not trusting you. It's about you not trusting Harry. You don't trust him to stand by you once he finds out. You don't trust him to still care about you._

_Well, after that row two nights ago, I doubt he still cares about me, anyway...if he ever did. _Setting his coffee down on the end table, Remus lowered his head to his hands with a sigh. He shouldn't have pressed the subject. It was just dinner, for Merlin's sake. And then with the full moon, Remus hadn't had any chance to repair the damage. What must Harry think—Remus disappearing the way he had? How could Harry ever forgive him? And yet...

A strange prickling feeling touched at his eyes at the thought that Harry had gone through the bother to bring him soup when he had thought he was ill. He couldn't remember anyone having done anything like that since he had been a small child. He had to set this right. _Today_, he thought determinedly, springing to his feet.

_Then again, maybe not today_, he thought, swaying dizzily and sinking back into his chair, fighting back a wave of nausea. _But soon_, he decided. _Very soon_. And with that thought, he settled himself in for a long nap. _Soon, all would be made well again._

_

* * *

_

**Harry was **fuming. He glared through the potions fumes at the blond boy on the other side of the room. Who was he? Malfoy, Neville had called him. Was he his son? His nephew? They looked so similar, it couldn't be a coincidence. Harry would remember that pale, pointed face anywhere, that white blond hair, those grey eyes, that arrogant smirk. They had to be related.

After lunch, Harry had joined Neville, the boy from his dormitory, in their trudge down to Potions. Harry had decided he quite liked Neville and had taken to sitting with him at meal times. Neville seemed to be a man of few words, which suited Harry perfectly. They would exchange a few pleasantries, Neville would offer a few insights into the classes or life at Hogwarts, and then they would fall into companionable silence.

Harry and Neville had just emerged from the narrow stairwell into the dungeon corridor outside the potions classroom when a loud sneering voice had cut through the chill air.

"Well, here he is, ladies and gentlemen. The Boy Who Lived! Can't be too promising if he's hanging around with Longbottom, can he?" A small group of large, ugly boys guffawed stupidly, and Neville went pink. Harry eyed the speaker irritably and felt his breath catch in his chest.

Harry had had to remind himself repeatedly that this couldn't be the same person. He was too young; the man he had met had been middle-aged and that was nearly four years ago now. No there was no way, and yet they looked so similar. Harry had been so preoccupied by his thoughts he was scarcely aware of what the other boy was saying. All he knew was that he didn't like this boy; all he knew was that the boy's cronies were guffawing louder; all he knew was that Neville was looking like he wanted to disappear. And next thing, all he knew was that both he and the blond kid had their wands pointed directly at each other's chest and silence had fallen in the hallway.

Naturally, Snape had chosen this moment to open the door leading from the classroom. After surveying the scene for all of two tenths of a second, he had snapped at Harry, "Potter! Fifty points from Gryffindor!" before turning around sharply and walking smartly through the door. Malfoy had smirked at Harry before following him into the classroom. The other students all began to file in, muttering amongst themselves.

The injustice of it was still burning in Harry's blood. Then he remembered that he really couldn't care less about Gryffindor house points. Still. Harry couldn't get it all out of his head. _Malfoy._ Silently Harry rolled the name over his tongue. Perhaps that evening he would head to the library to see if he couldn't find out something about his family—he never had anything to do in the evenings, now that he didn't have tutoring sessions with Remus, anyway. Neville had whispered to Harry that it was best to just ignore Draco Malfoy. But what Neville didn't know was that this wasn't about the kid—this wasn't about what had just happened in the hall. This was something older, something bigger.

Harry distractedly threw an extra pinch of ground scarabs into his Wit-Sharpening Potion as he watched the blond boy from across the potions classroom. His potion hissed angrily and turned a violent shade of orange instead of the desired burgundy. It was an improvement to Neville's, however; his had achieved the colour and consistency of treacle.

The hour went by slowly, Harry scarcely aware of the scathing remarks from Snape or the sneering grins from Malfoy. Defence Against the Dark Arts was the last class of the day. Under normal circumstances, Harry might have almost looked forward to this, but any pleasure Harry might have felt at the prospect was dulled by circumstances.

Two days had gone by and still Harry had seen nothing of Remus. He didn't know what to think anymore. Tuesday morning, Remus still had not been in class, and the Gryffindors had even been forced to sit through a lecture on defensive spells from Snape of all people. The whole class was grumbling by the time the hour was through. Thus it was that Harry was dragging his feet as he headed up to the second floor with the other Gryffindors, all of them dreading having Snape for two classes in a row.

When they entered the classroom, however, most of the students brightened. Harry, however, stopped flat just inside the door. Remus was seated behind his desk, rounding up various papers which seemed to have piled up during his absence. Harry stood there staring for a moment before Remus noticed and looked up at him. Immediately, Harry turned away; he couldn't seem to bring himself to make eye contact with Remus just yet.

As the mood of his peers brightened at Remus's return, Harry solemnly moved toward the back of the class as selected a seat. He hadn't been prepared for this. Remus hadn't been to lunch earlier that afternoon, so Harry had supposed that Remus would not be back for class. He had not yet contemplated how he should act around the man, what he should say. Maybe if he just avoided being alone with him, it wouldn't matter.

Harry sat in his seat, eyes fixed on his entwined hands resting on his lap. Ron plopped down in the seat next to him, but as he was sitting sideways with his back to Harry, leaning over the isle to continue a conversation with Dean and Seamus about some trip Ron had taken with his family to Egypt, Harry was free to ignore him. Still Harry did not look up at Remus. When Remus finally began his lecture on Disarmament Charms, Harry kept his head down and concentrated on taking notes.

When the bell rang to signal the end of the lesson, Harry gathered his things hurriedly and headed for the door. He was just thinking that this avoidance thing could really work when Remus's voice cut across the classroom.

"Harry. A word, if you don't mind."

Harry froze, scarcely a metre from the door his shoulders tense. His classmates steered around him, chatting contentedly as they made their way to dinner. Harry stood there a moment before turning around and dragging his feet over to Remus's desk where the professor had gone back to organizing papers. Harry stood waiting with his eyes on his feet. Both waited until the classroom was void of the other students before speaking.

"How are you, Harry?"

Harry jerked his head up to meet Remus's concerned eyes. Now that Harry looked at him, the man did look as though he had been ill; his face was pale and slack and there were dark circles under his eyes. "Fine," Harry replied shortly, thinking guiltily that it should have been _he_ who was asking _Remus_ how he was doing.

"I'm sorry I wasn't around the past few days; I'm sure they must have been stressful what with starting classes and everything. I'm afraid I picked a very inconvenient time to be ill."

Remus paused, but Harry could think of no response. It was like they barely knew each other again, like they were having to start all over from scratch.

After a moment of awkward silence in which Remus studied Harry and Harry did everything in his power to avoid looking at Remus, he spoke up again. "Now that I'm well enough, we should be able to resume our usual lesson this evening, if you have time. I thought we could work with a few dark creatures this evening. Unless you have any homework or anything you need help with tonight...?" Remus trailed off uncomfortably.

"Sure," replied Harry, and when that sounded insufficient he added, "That sounds good."

Silence fell again. Remus was still looking at him with a slightly concerned and perplexed look on his face. Harry chewed on his lip and swallowed trying to think of something, anything to say. "Well...I'd better get down to dinner," was all he finally came up with.

"Of course," Remus said with the air of a man who had just been jerked out of some reverie. "Dinner. I'll walk down with you, shall I?"

"No," Harry said too quickly, and finally he met Remus's eye as the older man froze, half-risen from his desk. "No," Harry repeated, more gently. "I'll er...not go down just yet. Got to...drop my books off in the dormitory."

"Ah. Yes. Certainly," replied Remus and this time it was his turn to avoid Harry's eyes as he began sliding a stack of papers into his worn case. Harry thought he recognised disappointment in the professor's face. And something else...Hurt? "I'll just meet you in my office at, say...seven thirty?"

"Seven thirty," Harry confirmed, nodding absently and moving backwards toward the door. "I'll er...see you then." And with that, he fled the room, leaving a very troubled-looking Remus staring after him.

* * *

**By the time** Harry knocked on the door to Remus's office at seven thirty, he was feeling quite disgusted with himself at the way he had responded to Remus earlier. Things just felt off, and Harry didn't know how to put them to rights. When Harry heard Remus's voice calling permission to enter, Harry let out a quick, silent prayer to anyone who might be listening that things might be returned to normal tonight.

Remus was seated at his desk, scribbling on a piece of parchment. He glanced up as Harry entered. "Ah, come on in, Harry, and sit down."

Harry settled himself if the straight-backed chair placed across from Remus's desk and waited as Remus put aside his quill and sprinkled blotting sand across the parchment upon which he had been writing. Remus then sat back in his chair and surveyed Harry. "How are you?" he asked.

The earnest way Remus was regarding him made Harry feel that he was not merely asking this as a pleasantry. Nonetheless, Harry could think of no better answer than the one he always gave. "Fine," he replied shrugging.

"Fine," repeated Remus softly with a rueful sort of smile. After a moment's silence Remus seemed to decide to simply get down to business, and he asked, "Was there anything in particular you were hoping to work on this evening?"

"No," Harry responded simply. "Anything would be fine."

Remus nodded for a moment of thought. "Well...in terms of Defence Against the Dark Arts, you're almost entirely caught up with the other students...All I can think of that we still haven't covered are a few dark creatures that are usually covered in third year. Boggarts, for example..." Harry felt his breath catch and panic start to flood his veins before Remus continued. "I had been looking about the castle to see if I could find one lurking somewhere for you to practice on, but no luck yet." Harry let out a silent sigh of relief. "But I'm sure I can find one, somewhere. Just a matter of looking in the right places. Maybe I'll have one for you tomorrow."

"Oh, no, let's not," Harry said, too quickly again. Remus raised an eyebrow at him, and Harry swallowed to give himself time to consider how to say this. The thought of facing his greatest fear was bad enough, but facing his greatest fear with Remus there to see what it was...it was too much to be born. "It's just...I've read all about them," said Harry. "And they seem simple enough. Just a straight-forward incantation, and you force it into a shape that inspires laughter. I really don't see why we should have to actually go through the trouble of finding one to practice on."

Remus wasn't buying it. He looked at Harry sceptically. "You might come across one and not know it's a boggart. How would you deal with it then?"

"I'm pretty sure I would know it was a boggart," Harry said with a humourless smile. He hoped that there would be no other reason that he might bump into Uncl—_him_ in the middle of Hogwarts Castle, anyway.

There was silence in the room as Remus studied him, taking in that comment and no doubt reading much more into it than Harry would like. "Harry," Remus said after a while. "There's something else going on here, isn't there. Is this about—"

"Please, Remus," Harry interrupted before Remus could get that thought out. "I can't do this with you. Not right now. Please. I just can't." _When did I start having to resort to begging?_ Harry thought irritated.

Remus surveyed him for a while, his head cocked to one side, a crease between his eyebrows. Just when Harry had given up hope that Remus was going to let this go, Remus broke the silence. "Very well. In that case, I'm afraid I don't have much of a lesson plan for you." Harry sat in shock as Remus continued on in a business-like manner. Was Remus really going to let the subject drop? Just like that? "Have you come across anything in any of your other classes that you need help with? Or do you have any homework you need to be working on?" Remus continued.

"I do have a potions essay due Friday that I should get a start on..." Harry said, though it was that last thing he felt like doing just then.

"Excellent," said Remus, but Harry had the strong impression that his mind was elsewhere. Now that Harry was studying him, he couldn't help but noticed the slow control to Remus's breathing as though he were holding his emotions under tight regulation. And in his eyes, Harry saw something he thought he recognised as hurt and rejection. Yes, he recognised those emotions all too well. Harry flinched internally. Wasn't he supposed to be trying to bring things back to normal? Not finding new ways to break them to pieces. "Well why don't you get on with that," Remus was saying, "and I'll be here if you have any questions. This will give me some time to get these lesson plans in order, anyway."

Harry nodded distractedly and reached down to pull the necessary books and quills from his bag. Remus picked up a parchment from his desk, reading it with a frown on his face. "I don't know why I keep leaving Professor Snape lesson plans every time I'm ill when he insists on ignoring them," he muttered more to himself than to Harry.

Harry, however, straightened up and looked at Remus confusedly. "You're ill often, then?" Harry asked, sharper than he meant to.

Remus looked back at Harry with something of a deer-in-the-headlights look. He stared at Harry for a moment and emotions were flashing across his face faster than Harry could begin to read them. It descended on something that resembled thoughtful indecision and after a few seconds more, Remus finally replied with the altogether useless answer of, "Weak immune system."

Harry nodded, chewing on his lip. He was quite sure that Remus was not being altogether honest with him. But Harry hardly felt as though he could call him out on it when _he_ had just been somewhat less than honest with Remus, and Remus had had the courtesy to drop the subject.

"So..." Harry said, racking his brain to come up with something to say that would resemble a natural conversation. _Normal. Bring things back to normal._ "You're working on lesson plans. What do you think we'll study next, then?"

"Well, I shouldn't think Disarmament Charms should take more than one day further. I expect you'll all have those spells down quickly enough. They're relatively simple. But that should carry us to the end of this week..."

"And then?" Harry asked, striving to keep the conversation going. This was not at all his forte, but he was getting better at it after the past month with Remus.

"And then, I'm not sure. I had thought about giving a lecture or two on the Unforgiveable Curses, but I'm not sure how parents would respond to that. Many witches and wizards are very touchy about those sorts of thing being discussed with their children."

"What are the Unforgiveable Curses?"

Remus switched seamlessly into professor mode. "The Unforgiveable Curses are a set of three curses, the use of any one of which on another human being will land you a life sentence in Azkaban."

"Azkaban? That's that wizarding prison, right?"

"Yes," replied Remus, a far off look to his eyes. "Terrible place," he said softly. "Most go mad within weeks." Harry wanted to ask more but Remus seemed lost in his own thoughts, and something told Harry it was best not to interrupt him.

"Anyway," Remus said abruptly, snapping out of his reverie. "Despite the fact that many parents disagree, it seems to me the Unforgivable Curses are important to recognise. Voldemort and his Death Eaters were particularly fond of them, and who knows when we'll be seeing _them_ again. The Death Eaters—" he began, but then cut himself off, looking at Harry as though he had abruptly realised who he was talking to. "But you'll know all about them, I suppose..."

Remus again seemed to lose himself in thought. He had his elbow propped on the desk top, his knuckles pressed to his lips. He stared out the window, but when Harry followed his line of sight, he found it was too dark to see anything but the room reflected back at them. Harry licked his lips eyeing Remus concernedly.

Harry didn't know what made him say it. Maybe it was the confrontation with Draco Malfoy that had brought the event to the forefront of his mind. Maybe it was out of a desire to make amends after their argument. Maybe it was simply the look of lost dejection on Remus's face. He didn't know what made him say it, but all he knew was that he felt his mouth open and heard the words echo in the quiet room in his own voice.

"I was never kidnapped by the Death Eaters."

It took a moment before Harry's word broke through Remus's distraction but then he snapped his eyes onto Harry's with a dazed look. "What?" It was such a simple word, soft and hushed, but coupled with the earnest, concerned eyes that now stared at him, the word held such emotion, such hope, such fear, that Harry felt a shiver run down his spine.

He swallowed. "I was never kidnapped by the Death Eaters," Harry repeated, though he knew that Remus had heard the first time. "I don't know where the misunderstanding occurred or why everyone believed that I had, and maybe it was wrong for me not to contradict it, but it never happened. I guess it just suited me to have you all believe I had been."

Harry waited for a moment, allowing what he had said to sink in, not that it was doing much good; Remus looked more and more confused with each second that passed.

"But..." he faltered, "But then who took you from your aunt and uncle's?"

Harry looked away chewing on his lip. This was exactly the direction he didn't want this conversation going. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "No one," he said finally. "No one took me."

"But then—"

"I left my aunt and uncle's of my own free will," Harry interrupted, abruptly becoming impatient. Why had he even brought this up? Of course Remus was going to want to know why Harry left. "It was no one's decision by mine." His tone was hard and he clenched his jaw as he looked at Remus, just daring the man to continue that particular line of questioning.

Remus stared back at Harry, his expression completely bemused. He looked away from Harry, racking his eyes across the room. Every once in a while he would open his mouth and draw in a breath as though to speak, but he invariably closed it a second later. Finally, Remus's eyes fell on a book lying on his desk. He studied it for a moment with a frown on his face before he turned back to Harry.

"When you were reading about the Death Eaters—back in Sussex—you recognised them. You recognised the Death Eaters!" Remus's voice was insistent, demanding that Harry not try to deny it.

Harry sighed. This was more where he'd wanted the conversation to lead, but now it came to it, he wasn't at all sure he wanted to speak of this. "I said they didn't take me from my aunt and uncle's house. I didn't say our paths had never crossed." Remus was quiet now, eyes on Harry, waiting for him to say more. _Well, there's no turning back now_, Harry thought dully.

Harry took another deep breath. "It was when I was ten. I'd already been living in London for a few months at the time—"

"Living where?" Remus interrupted. Harry suppressed a sigh. This was going to take a while.

"On the streets," he replied with a careless shrug. "I had been staying above an abandoned shop on Charing Cross Road, but then the shop was let out, and there were contractors and the like about, and I had to leave. I think at this particular time I had found a warehouse where hardly anybody went after hours, so I spent most nights there. But I always went back to Charing Cross Road during the day." He paused, expecting Remus to interrupt again, but he did not. He was studying Harry attentively, unconsciously gnawing on his tongue.

"Charing Cross was a good place for me, you see. Lots of people and most of them rich; I could always beg or...or steal...enough to get by." He paused again, looking at Remus in trepidation, wondering if he would scold him for stealing. He did not comment, however, instead nodding for Harry to continue.

"Well, one day, when I was trolling Charing Cross, I saw a man come out of a shop and...well...he caught my eye because he dressed kinda funny, but he looked rich. So I figured I'd er...pick his pocket." He said this last very fast but again Remus did not seem to judge him. "I'd gotten quite good at pick-pocketing over the months—usually it was easy. But this time...I thought I just somehow got my hand caught, but now I think it must have been some anti-theft spell. It felt like something grabbed my arm and was holding me there.

"The man noticed, and he grabbed my arm. He was so angry..." Harry trailed off, remembering the fingers biting into his flesh, the hard grey eyes in the sharp, pointed, face—Draco Malfoy's face, only older. "But then he saw me and...I dunno...his anger just melted. He was looking at me with recognition...with _wonder_. Then he brushed my hair back and just stood there and stared at my scar.

"I didn't know much magic then—I'd really only just begun to realise it was something I could control—but I was able to send an electric shock through him. Enough that he let me go, anyway. And then I just ran." Harry paused here, collecting his thoughts and carefully not looking at Remus.

"I didn't think much of it just then...It was strange, but not _that_ strange, you know? I'd been living on the streets long enough to know that it could have been a lot worse. But the next day when I went back...I started to notice people watching me...following me. Never the same person twice. I wasn't sure at first. But then, when I went back to the warehouse that night, I noticed a man walking the same way as me, always just a half a block back. I tried to shake him, and I thought I had...but then when I got into the warehouse and looked out the window, there was someone else standing across the street, watching the building. Hours went by and he still hadn't moved..." Harry remembered those hours spent huddled in indecision. He had known he should leave, but he was afraid to just go in the middle of the night. He had felt safe in the warehouse until then, and who knew when he'd be able to find such a comfortable and relatively warm place to sleep. He was hesitant to give it up, on what could turn out to just be a fancy.

"It was the middle of the night when they finally came. I watched them from an upstairs window. There was probably about ten of them. They just...appeared...just stepped out of the dark...and they were wearing those cloaks and those masks like in the book. That's why I recognised them back in Sussex." Harry swallowed. He didn't know how to explain this...he'd scarcely understood what was going on at the time, and the years had fuzzed his memory.

"I hid. There was a kind of electrical room in the back and I hid there. But I heard them searching the place...searching for me. After a while, it sounded like they were giving up and leaving, but when I sneaked out of my hiding place, I guess I tripped over something and someone must have heard me. Next thing I knew, one of those masked blokes was in front of me and had a wand pointed at me—not that I knew what it was at the time. Anyway, I just...reacted...or my magic did, I guess. The man was blasted back, and he broke through a window and fell all the way down to the street. I...He wasn't moving...

"After that, I didn't really stop to think. I could hear the others coming back up the stairs, and I just...ran. I went out the window the Death Eater had broken through and then jumped on to the roof of the neighbouring building and then went down the fire escape. And I ran. I don't know if they were following me...I made it half way across London before I stopped. After that I just started over in a new part of town, changed my name again and my appearance the best I could." Harry shrugged. "I never saw them again. I dunno if they were still looking."

There was silence in the room as Harry finished his tale. Remus just sat there, looking at him with a sombre expression and Harry found he couldn't meet his eyes. The minutes passed and still Remus didn't speak. Maybe he could sense that there was something more that Harry had still to say. Something Harry had never spoken of to anyone, something he had never even let himself face. But now as he sat in Remus's office, it all flooded in, and Harry found that he _had_ to face it. "Remus, he wasn't moving. The man who fell through the window. I...I think I killed him." And the self-loathing he had been forcing down for nearly four years rose up threatening to choke him. Harry closed his eyes tight, sank his teeth into his lip, and lowered his chin to hide his face from Remus's sight. "I killed him," he said in a whisper, more to himself than to Remus, and he felt his shoulders begin to shake.

Harry didn't hear Remus rise from his chair or round the desk. But next thing Harry knew, strong arms were around him, pulling him into a firm chest. Harry did not return the hug—he didn't know how to do that, even if he wanted to—but he did not pull away. His hands were balled into fists, resting on Remus's chest, and he felt a hand cup the back of his neck, bringing his cheek to rest on Remus's collar bone.

"Maybe you did kill him," Remus said. "And maybe you didn't. But there is one thing I'm certain of Harry. If you hadn't done what you did, he would have killed you. And not in so quick a way as that. You did nothing more than what you had to. And I'm very glad you did."

Slowly, Harry felt his breathing begin to calm and his tense muscles relax. Still he stayed there, Remus's heartbeat slow and steady under his ear.

"Thank you," Remus's voice whispered in his ear after a minute or two.

"For what?" Harry asked, his voice somewhat more choked than he cared to admit.

Remus took a deep breath, his chest rising under Harry's cheek, and let it out before replying. Harry could feel him shaking his head slowly. "I don't know," he said finally. "For trusting me, I suppose."

Harry had no reply to that. He just sat there, wondering how this night had landed him here. _So much for returning things to normal._

_

* * *

_

**A/N:** Sorry again for the long wait, and thanks for your patience! I've been awfully busy. End of term exams were a bit brutal. But hey! One term down! I am 1/8 of a vet!

Thanks, as always, for the reviews. Wow. Forty for the last chapter. I should keep you guys waiting more often… (just kidding, I wouldn't do that to you intentionally). I was so glad to see so many of you appreciated Neville, not least because I kind of based his character off myself in many regards. Anyway. Hope this chapter satisfied some angst-addicts. I will try to update again soon, but it's hard to say… Hope you all have a very happy new year.

Cheers!  
Baguette

Also, to _D_, since I can't respond to your review directly…  
With regards to my authors note on the previous chapter, I didn't mean to come off as missish. I wasn't directing the comment at you or any one person in particular. I was getting a lot of similar questions, and I just wanted to be honest and admit that I didn't have an answer to them. You raised some excellent points; unfortunately, I just don't have a good way to incorporate them in this case. Thank you for your reviews. They are always very constructive and well thought out, and I very much enjoyed your analysis of the loneliness of the various characters. It gave me a bit of a laugh because I had originally entitled that chapter "Alone" for precisely the reasons you stated there.


	18. 17 Melting Snows

**Chapter 17  
Melting Snows  
**

**For about** the fiftieth time in the past ten minutes, Remus walked determinedly up to the gargoyle guarding Dumbledore's office, and, like the forty-nine times previous, he turned away at the last moment, letting out a frustrated growl. With a sigh, Remus moved over to the narrow bay window just to the right of the gargoyle and looked out over the snow-blanketed grounds. He leaned against the window frame, letting his breath out in a sigh.

Did he have a right to tell Dumbledore about all that Harry had said? Harry had not authorised him to relay his story to the headmaster. But surely Harry must have known that with all that he had told Remus of his encounter with the Death Eaters, some action would have to be taken. Dumbledore was the only one who would listen to Remus, the only one with the power to respond. Yes, Harry knew that Remus would have to convey at least some of this to Dumbledore, but how much? How much was morally fair to tell? All the things Harry had said? And what about the things he hadn't?

Remus's head was still reeling with all that Harry had voiced. Imagining Harry living on his own on the streets, being attacked by Death Eaters…Remus was surprised Lily hadn't come back from the grave just to murder him for his neglect of her child all those years. And poor Harry. To have killed someone when he had been only ten years old? It was a terrible burden he should never have had to bear. It all made Remus sick to his stomach thinking that all of it could have been prevented had he just not given up hope that Harry was alive. Had he kept looking for him. But Harry had not wanted to be found…

If Remus's head was reeling from what Harry had voiced, it was nothing compared to the reeling from what Harry_ hadn't _voiced. Harry's admission that no one had taken him away from the Dursleys', that he had left of his own accord, it was forcing Remus to confront a thought that had been nudging at his mind since the day they had met. But Remus didn't want to face it. He felt enough guilt for having left Harry to live on the streets when Remus had believed him dead; could he bear to add to it? But this wasn't about him. It was about Harry. And though Remus could never make up for what he had put Harry through, he could at least do this for him. And so he faced it head on, charging at it like an angry bull.

He faced Harry's insistence that he not be returned to the Dursleys on that day in the Ministry. He faced the look of terror that had been on Harry's face when Remus had been rummaging in the cupboard back in his home in Sussex. He faced Harry's determination not to study boggarts earlier this evening. He faced Harry's clear dislike of being touched, his clear distrust of everyone around him, his clear fear of intimacy.

The conclusion was very simple, of course—one that a part of his brain had known all along but which he had refused to accept. The possibility had been too painful, and so he had suppressed it to the back of his mind. But it had been brought to the forefront now, and no amount of suppression would ever force it back again.

But what should he do about it? His fingers ran themselves through his greying hair, gripping tightly. _Blast it all._He needed help, damn it. Advice. And there was only one place he knew where to get it.

He straightened up, steeling himself against the wave of uncertainty and shame and marched up to the gargoyle, speaking the password in as clear and strong a voice as ever he had.

* * *

**Dumbledore listened** quietly as Remus relayed the tale of Harry's encounter with the Death Eaters. He did not speak, did not interrupt, merely sat with the tips of his long fingers together, surveying Remus from across the desk.

By all outwards appearances Dumbledore was fully attentive to Remus's words, and he was, in a manner of speaking. But the intellect of Albus Dumbledore was such that his mind could work furiously in a million different directions without missing a single word Remus spoke. And so Dumbledore sat, sorting each new piece of information into the correct file of his brain, making connections, deciding how best to act. And emotions warred behind his blank face as well. Sorrow for the life Harry had led, guilt for his part in bringing it about, fear for how it would affect Harry's fate-compelled roll in the war that was to come, and satisfaction that Harry had at last begun to open up to Remus.

When Remus at length was finished with the tale, Dumbledore sat quietly surveying his Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher over his half-moon spectacles. As most did upon receiving that searching look from Dumbledore, Remus shifted in his seat and did not quite meet his eyes.

"Thank you for coming to me with this, Remus," Dumbledore said at last. "I imagine it was not the easiest decision in your life. I know it is a complicated situation I've placed you in. Having to balance Harry's confidence in you with…other obligations."

"I placed myself in this situation," countered Remus. "Gladly. Complicated it may be, but that's through no fault of yours."

Dumbledore studied Remus again, a slight smile on his lips. He really was an extraordinary man, Remus Lupin. Dumbledore could not have imagined a better person for this thankless job he had been set.

"I shall look into the situation. See if we can't find anything more about the incident with the Death Eaters. You said this occurred when he was ten? A few months after he left the Dursleys'?"

"According to Harry," Remus affirmed.

"Well, that would put us around May or June of Ninety-one." Dumbledore stroked his beard, thinking. "I'll see if I can find any record of death or injury to any suspected Death Eater that might fit the circumstances. " Remus nodded, seeming distracted. "I don't suppose Harry was able to give a physical description?"

"No. He said he was masked. He didn't get a good look at any of them except…except the one he had tried to steal from."

"Ah, yes? And did he say what he looked like?"

"He…" Remus looked at Dumbledore and then toward the window with a sigh. "He said he looked like an older version of Draco Malfoy."

"Lucius?"

"That was my assumption," Remus agreed.

"Well, that's unfortunate. Lucius Malfoy is quite untouchable…" said Dumbledore contemplatively.

"I suspected as much. Too much gold has exchanged hands there."

"Yes; Lucius has played his cards well since the war ended. He's much too close to Fudge. And Fudge would never take any legal action against him on merely the word of a fourteen-year-old wizard, much less _this _fourteen-year-old wizard. Especially considering this all happened some four years ago."

"And any action would require placing Harry in the thick of an extensive court battle, considering how much money Lucius has to throw at lawyers. Harry would hardly appreciate that…"

"No…" agreed Dumbledore, meditatively. "No, I don't suppose he would." There was silence for a moment as both wizards considered the limited options. "Well, I will think on it, Remus. If there is anything I can do, I certainly will, but I fear our hands may be rather tied in this." Remus nodded soberly. Again, Dumbledore had the strong impression that Remus was thinking about something quite different, and Dumbledore decided they might as well bring it out in the open.

"Now, Remus," Dumbledore said, tone business-like. "Now that we have that incident out of the way, why don't you tell me what you really wished to speak to me about." Again, he placed the tips of his fingertips together and surveyed Remus as the younger man jumped and looked toward the headmaster with wide eyes.

After a fraction of a moment, Remus let out a short, hollow, humourless laugh. He sank his head into one hand, elbow resting on the arm of his chair and rubbed his forehead distractedly. "It's just. All of this—talking to Harry—it's made me start to wonder about…other things... Things he didn't put into words but which were…implied. I…" He raised his head to look out the window, hand going reflexively to massage his chin instead. After a moment's reflection he tried again.

"Headmaster…Albus. You remember, three and a half years ago…when you came to tell me that Harry was missing? You told me of your suspicions—that Harry had been kidnapped by Death Eaters, that you thought he was dead. I've been trying to remember…It was so long ago, and I was so distraught at the time, I can't seem to…Why was it, you came to that conclusion?" He looked at Dumbledore here, eyes searching for an explanation.

Dumbledore straightened slightly in his chair, drawing in a deep breath. "At the time, it seemed like the most logical explanation," Dumbledore said calmly. "Clearly, I was wrong." Oh, how tedious it was to admit that one was wrong. It was not a challenge that Albus Dumbledore was accustomed to having to face. "But given the information we had then, it seemed the simplest and most likely possibility. Harry was gone, the Trace had been broken—something most any expert would tell you happens only as a result of death—and a very powerful memory charm had been placed, not just on the Dursley family, but actually on everyone who had been within a few hundred metre radius. Even Arabella Figg, who on my request had been residing two streets over from Harry's relations, was affected by it."

Remus was gazing at Dumbledore with a crease between his brows and his mouth slightly agape. "What...what kind of memory charm could do that?"

"What kind, indeed," replied Dumbledore. "It was a charm such as I have never seen, nor seen since. The weave of magic was entirely foreign, and I was quite unable to break it. And its effects were different from any memory charm I am familiar with. It did not simply alter the recipient's perception of events, it…it was as though history itself had been rewritten, if on just those few blocks in the heart of Little Whinging." Dumbledore gave Remus a moment to process this before carrying on.

"You can understand why I would make the leap to suspect the Death Eaters. They certainly had means and motive, as the events Harry related to you prove. And I thought this charm to be evidence in favour of that notion. A charm of that power, a charm unrecognised, even by the Committee on Experimental Charms. I came to the conclusion that it was a piece of magic Voldemort may have passed down to his followers before his downfall."

Dumbledore studied Remus closely and he knew the precise moment that Remus came to the same end that Dumbledore had when Remus first told him that Harry had not been kidnapped from the Dursley home.

"But.." Remus faltered. "If the Death Eaters didn't cast that charm…who did?"

Dumbledore smiled indulgently. "I believe, Remus, you have already come to the same conclusion I have in that department."

Remus did not immediately respond. He shook his head slowly, not really disagreeing with Dumbledore, rather attempting to deny the possibility to himself. But then he looked back to Dumbledore and said, very softly, tentatively, "Harry?" Dumbledore gave him another small smile. Remus let his breath out in a huff and again gazed out the window for a moment, trying to process it all. "Accidental magic?" he asked, after a moment of silence.

"That does seem the most probable," Dumbledore affirmed. "We have seen that Harry had a remarkable grasp of his magic from a very young age, but I don't believe anyone is capable of intentionally producing a spell of that magnitude at a mere ten years of age. Remus nodded, agreeing.

Again there was silence for a moment as Remus considered all this and Dumbledore considered Remus. Then Remus brought up another point. "What about the Trace? The Ministry claimed the Trace had already been broken by the time we realised Harry was no longer with his aunt and uncle. But you said so yourself: the Trace can only be broken if the child in question dies or comes of age. Harry clearly is neither dead nor of age, so…" He trailed off, letting Dumbledore infer the question.

"Ah, yes. The Trace," replied Dumbledore, smiling again. "Curious, isn't it? Quite remarkable. I believe," he continued, "that given the powerful pulse of magic that Harry would have produced when conducting that memory charm—if indeed we can call it that—he may have…interfered with the Trace."

"Interfered?"

"The nature of the charm that was performed on Privet Drive that day was such that, as I said earlier, history itself was rewritten. It wasn't simply that Harry was erased from the minds of those who lived there. Rather it was as though Harry's existence was itself actually erased, if only for a few hours and in that precise location. It would seem that whatever happened, it was enough to break the Trace."

"Thus leading us all to believe him dead," Remus concluded. They fell again into silence, Remus staring out the window, a look of infinite sadness on his face. It was the longest silence yet, but Dumbledore did not break it. He knew where this conversation was going, knew it would be painful for Remus to bring up, and so he waited patiently, giving the younger man as much time as he needed.

At length Remus looked away from the window, but he did not meet Dumbledore's eyes, rather preferring to study his entwined hands. He took a deep breath as though mustering himself and then said, "Albus…you must have spoken to them—the Dursleys, I mean… What were your…impressions? Did they seem concerned for Harry or…I dunno, angry?"

Dumbledore sighed. "To be honest, Remus, their brains seemed rather addled when it came to anything related to Harry. They didn't show much of any emotion at all."

"From the spell you mean?" Remus interjected.

"Yes," Dumbledore said slowly. The fuzziness filling their minds was certainly from the spell, but the apathy…Dumbledore was not sure that was entirely related. Dumbledore had known when he had left Harry on that doorstep all those years ago that he was condemning the boy to a less-than-loving childhood, but until recently he had never considered that it would go…beyond that.

"Even with Legilimency, I was able to glean very little information about Harry. Whatever that spell that Harry cast was, it was remarkably potent and complex. They were, as I recall, angry, but that seemed a response to my presence in their home rather than it being directed at Harry's disappearance."

"They never reported him missing," said Remus dully. Still he did not meet Dumbledore's eyes. Just sat there frowning at the older man's hands.

"No," Dumbledore agreed, though it had not really been a question. "They did not."

When silence once again reigned, Dumbledore decided to help Remus out and just say what he knew they were both thinking.

"You suspect that Harry was maltreated by his relations?"

Remus chewed on his lip for a second and then, rather than answer the question, he at last looked up, met Dumbledore's eye and asked his own. "Do you?"

Dumbledore sighed sadly. "In hindsight," he said carefully, "it does appear to be a distinct possibility."

Remus got to his feet and began pacing. "It all fits doesn't it?" His teeth were grinding together, his fists clenched, his breath coming fast through his nose. "I mean just look at him! He hates being touched, doesn't trust anyone, has irrational fears that I can't explain… And now we find out he actually ran away the Dursleys' of his own volition? It's the only reasonable explanation!"

"Not the only," countered Dumbledore, outwardly calm. Inwardly, he felt his heart was breaking. "But I grant you, the most logical, yes. Of course, Harry's the only one who could say for sure."

"He won't," Remus refuted. "He was very clear on that when we were having this discussion earlier. Anytime I got anywhere near the subject of why he left his relations, he steered the conversation elsewhere, in no uncertain terms. He'd never willingly open up about this. Not to me anyway," he added dejectedly, flopping back down in his chair and burying his face in his hands.

"Give him more time, Remus. It's barely been a month."

"I don't know if I can," Remus answered, his voice gruff and muffled by his hands and emotion. "How can I know what I know and yet just sit here doing nothing? How can that possibly help him?"

"We don't_ know_ anything, Remus," Dumbledore reminded him. "We suspect." Remus shook his head, and Dumbledore sighed. He considered his words carefully. "Remus, there are times that I would recommend confronting an abused child in a situation like this. But in this case… Remus, the situation with Harry is too fragile. If we're right…if you confront him, force him to talk about it before he's ready…I feel certain he'll run. He'll run and we'll lose him forever."

Remus shifted, sitting up a little straighter and dropping his hands from his face. He went back to staring out the window; one would think it were the most fascinating and tragic view in the world. Dumbledore continued. "Harry has made remarkable progress in the past month. That he opened up about the incident with the Death Eaters, and did so willingly and unprovoked…It is more than I would have hoped for."

Remus took a deep breath and let it out before saying, "You're right. Of course, I know you're right it's just…" and at last Remus looked directly at Dumbledore and the pain, the agony contained behind his golden-brown eyes nearly knocked Dumbledore backwards. "When he was telling me about the Death Eaters…he mentioned…things…things about his life on the streets. Albus, he was all alone. Sleeping in a warehouse, cold, hungry, stealing to survive. I just can't help thinking…Just how terrible was his life at home that he would choose_ that _over staying with his family?"

And to that, Dumbledore had no response. _Just how terrible, indeed._

* * *

**His eyes snapped** open. _Where am I?_

His breath echoed off stone walls in the confined room. He made to sit up and groaned as his cramped muscles protested. He looked around. He was lying on the cold stone floor of a tiny, dark cell. It's only furnishings were a wooden berth against the opposite wall and a metal bucket adjacent to it. Next to the bucket stood a thick, wood-planked door with a small barred window which looked out on a dimly torch-lit corridor. _Ah, yes. Azkaban._ _How long have I been here?_

He forced himself to his feet, joints cracking, and hobbled over to the berth. Why had he been sleeping on the floor anyway? Gripping one of the rusted chains, he sank down onto it with a sigh; a fraction of a second later he tensed as the rotten berth creaked in protest to the addition of his weight. _Oh. That's why._ But neither wood nor chains gave way, and so he relaxed again.

He rested his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands. He felt the tangled mass of a beard beneath his fingers. How long_ had_ he been here? He drew in a deep breath through his nose and held it for a moment before letting it out. _Why am I here, again?_ He couldn't remember. He supposed it didn't matter. There was nothing he could do about it after all. Fog filled his brain, but he could feel it slowly evaporating, insanity sliding away like melting snows off a pitched roof. Sirius Black shifted, leaning back against the cold stone behind him, drawing in a deep breath.

Eventually his brain cleared enough for him to wonder to what he owed this rare moment of lucidity. He had had these brief instances of clarity before. Sirius was sure of that. He couldn't remember anything that had happened during them in the past or any thoughts that had entered his brain, but he was sure he'd had them. There was a pattern to them. Causation. He was sure of that, too.

The Dementors. That was it. The Dementors had retreated. Why was that? He took in another deep breath. The oxygen seemed to help clear some of the fuzziness in his brain. The Dementors retreated when someone came to visit Azkaban. Yes, that was it. Someone important enough to merit having the Dementors called off for a short time so that he or she wouldn't have to suffer their effects.

Just as this thought came to him, he heard footsteps down the hall, echoing through the corridor. And there were voices too. Voices he knew. He closed his eyes, depriving himself of one sense to better focus on another. Who were they?

Bjørn Amundsen. Yes, that was it. The warden of Azkaban. His thick Norwegian accent was distinctive enough to break through the barriers in his memory. But who was the other man? Sirius was sure he recognised it too. The voice was curt and business-like, but there was a layer of uncertainty underneath that its owner clearly attempted to hide. Sirius took another deep breath, letting his mind wander back in time.

Abruptly, Sirius found himself standing beside a crater in the middle of a street. Bodies littered the ground; people were screaming; a ruptured water line was spewing forth its contents ten feet into the air; Cornelius Fudge, the Junior Minister of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, was talking as an Auror placed restraining charms on Sirius…and Sirius…Sirius was laughing. He had come here to kill Peter, and Peter had gone and done the job for him. The bastard had always been bloody useless at duelling. But to actually blow himself up when he had been going for Sirius? The hilarity was too much to be born. And so he laughed. Laughed because Peter was dead as he should be. Laughed because Sirius knew his situation was hopeless—Peter, of all people, had played the last practical joke of the Marauders. Laughed because he had nothing better to do. Laughed because it was better than crying.

The recollection hit him with the force of a battering hex. But no. That couldn't be could it? Peter had been his friend. He and Remus and James…His brain shied from the thought before he could form it. The voices were coming closer and abruptly Sirius remembered where he had heard that voice before. He raised his head from his hands to look towards the door. Cornelius Fudge of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. But no. Something was tugging at Sirius's memory. He was Minister now. A strange sense of déjà vu struck him. This had all happened before, hadn't it? Cornelius Fudge came to inspect Azkaban every year. The memories were as foggy as a dream, and Sirius tried not to entertain the thought that all too soon, the occurrences during this precious moment of clarity would be just as foggy.

Sirius rose to his feet and stumbled over to the thick, wood-planked door. He gripped the bars running across the small window and leaned his forehead against the freezing metal. The voices were coming nearer, heading down the hall to his right. He began to be able to pick out words, then sentences, then the entire conversation.

"And this is the high-security ward," came Amundsen's clipped Norwegian drawl. "These cells are reserved for the most dangerous inmates."

"And these prisoners are kept under twenty-four seven surveillance, correct?" queried Fudge.

"That is correct. Though it is hardly necessary for most of them; most are so far gone, they couldn't even contemplate escape, much less accomplish it." Down the hall, Bellatrix Lestrange chose this moment to let loose a resonating choir of manic laughter, which was shortly accompanied by Dolohov from the neighbouring cell.

Fudge and Amundsen were coming nearer, and as they at last came into view of the small section of hall purchased by the narrow barred window of his cell, Sirius rather got it into his head to amuse himself. There were quite few enough opportunities to do so; he might as well take advantage of this one.

And just as Amundsen and Fudge reached his cell, Sirius cleared his throat and said, quite collectedly, "Good morning, Minister. Fine weather we're having, don't you think?" Of course he didn't have the faintest idea if they were having fine weather or if it was indeed morning. But his words had the effect he was searching for, so it made very little difference.

Fudge stumbled to a halt and turned to look wide-eyed at Sirius, unmistakably unnerved. What was left of the Marauder in Sirius cheered internally in triumph. Amundsen had taken a few more steps down the hall before turning back to Fudge. His eyes shifted in focus and fell on Sirius, a crease appearing on the prominent brow of his angled face.

"In—indeed," stammered Fudge. "But the prophets tell us to expect yet more snow tomorrow." _Winter, then_, Sirius reasoned. He wondered of what year. It was then that he caught sight of the newspaper tucked under Fudge's arm. The date would be written there. That and other things. A deep, insufferable thirst for knowledge of the outside world was rearing in Sirius's chest.

_Play it cool, Sirius_. With some effort, he tore his eyes from the newspaper and looked back up to meet Fudge's gaze. He gave Fudge his best imitation of the endearing smile he used to use on Professor McGonagall back in school when she caught him doing something he shouldn't. "I wonder, Minister. Are you perhaps finished with your newspaper? I do so miss doing the crosswords."

Fudge was gaping at Sirius. He seemed too shocked to consider refusing. And so, very slowly, wide eyes never leaving Sirius's, looking much as though he was under a trance, Fudge raised the paper and slipped it through the bars in Sirius's cell door.

Sirius reached up and retrieved it before saying, "That's ever so kind of you, Minister. I suppose, the crosswords might be more difficult for me now than they used to, though…" He gave an easy laugh. "I'm a little behind on the popular culture references. I don't suppose you'd care to come in and help me fill in the blanks."

Fudge had started shaking. He stood there, his mouth agape, fear clear in his eyes. He did not seem to be able to tear his gaze from Sirius.

Amundsen, however, had had enough. He cleared his throat, stepping between Fudge and Sirius, breaking their eye contact. "We should carry on with the tour, Minister." He stretched out his arm to indicate that they should continue on their way.

Eye contact broken, Fudge seemed to snap out of his trance enough to say, "Wha—Er…yes…Yes, of course…The tour." He made to move down the hall. Amundsen gave Sirius one last contemplative look which was met with a smirk and a raised eyebrow, before he too continued down the hall.

For a moment, Sirius merely stood there listening to the footsteps carrying them away. Then, "Maybe next time then, Minister," Sirius called loudly after Fudge. And he laughed as the footsteps quickened their pace. Laughed for all the world as if there had never been anything funnier, nor ever would be again. And for all that Sirius could remember, it was true.

He was still laughing as he unrolled the newspaper and looked at the front page. The first thing he looked at was the date written in the uppermost corner. _10 January, 1995_. Sirius stared at it. Thirteen years. He had been here over _thirteen_ _years_! How was that possible? It was a moment before Sirius managed to tear his eyes away from the date to peruse the rest of the paper. Who knew how long he had before the snows of insanity fell again on his misused brain.

The first half of the front page was taken up by a moving photograph of a large family of nine, standing in front of a pyramid and waving furiously. He skimmed the article.

**MINISTRY OF MAGIC EMPLOYEE SCOOPS GRAND PRIZE  
**

Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office  
at the Ministry of Magic, has won the annual _Daily Prophet_  
Grand Prize Galleon Draw. Mr Weasley and his family spent  
the gold on a Christmas holiday in Egypt, where the eldest  
Weasley son works as a curse breaker for Gringotts Wizarding  
Bank.

After spending a month in Egypt, the Weasley family recently  
returned for the start of the new school term at Hogwarts,  
which four of the Weasley children currently attend.

_Must be a slow news day,_ thought Sirius_. Or maybe life since the end of the war really is so boring that this is all they have to write about._ _Honestly_. _The shite that makes the front page of the _Daily Prophet_. Does anyone actually care about some random wizarding family's holiday in Egypt?_

Sirius gave one last derisive glance at the photograph before making to move on down the page. But then something caught his eye. Something so impossible he thought the insanity had returned. But no. There was no fogginess in his brain now. His mind felt unnaturally, unnervingly clear. His claw-like hands gripped the paper so tightly, the corners crumpled, and he brought the photo closer to his face, scrutinising the youngest of the Weasley boys. Yes. There it was. There on the boy's shoulder. A plump, patchy-looking rat sat, and, in clear-view, his right paw could be seen to be missing a toe.

Sirius swayed. Drawing in deep, ragged breaths. Of course. It was so simple. So _brilliant_. He never would have expected it of Peter. He was alive. All this time, and he'd been alive. Living as some house pet, enjoying hand-outs and pats.

Sirius thought back to that day, that terrible day. He had tracked Peter down, determined to seek vengeance for what he had done to Lily and James. And he had had Peter cornered and there had been that explosion. Sirius had thought it had been an accident, just Peter being his usual clumsy and pathetic self. But no. It hadn't been an accident. Where had such a piece of ingenuity been found in Peter's worthless head? With the explosion, Sirius hadn't seen, couldn't have seen. It had been chaos. It would have been so easy for Peter to transform into a rat and scurry down into the sewers. But Peter had taken his plan one step further. He had been determined that no one should ever come looking for him again. He had been determined that Sirius would take the blame for all of Peter's crimes. And all he had to do was leave behind some fragments to make sure that all the world believed him dead. His robes, some blood…and a finger. So simple. So cunning.

Fiendfyre was filling his brain. Sirius couldn't think. All thought was fast being consumed in a raging fire of hatred. The paper was shaking in his hands. He crumpled it, fingers digging into the pages until they ripped puncture holes straight though. One thought entered into his brain, filling it, overwhelming all others. Peter had framed him. And Sirius wanted him dead.

Any holes in his memory had been filled. He remembered all that had happened. Peter had set him up. He was the reason Sirius was here in this rat-infested cell. But something else was there also. Yes, Peter had been the one to land him here through action, but what about those who had landed him here through inaction?

What hurt perhaps just as much if not more than Peter's overt betrayal, was the betrayal of his other friends. Dumbledore had been Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. He was influential. People listened to him. Was it too much to ask that Sirius receive a trial? The chance to defend himself?

And Remus? Remus's betrayal hurt worst of all. Had it been so easy for Remus to believe that Sirius would betray Lily and James? Had he accepted it so completely that he had never thought to question Sirius's incarceration? Never tried to see Sirius, hear his version of events? Had all those years of friendship counted for nothing?

Sirius wanted out. Not because he was innocent and by rights should never have been here in the first place. Not for the sake of freedom. Not for the sake of justice. He wanted out for the sake of revenge. They deserved death. All of them. And he wanted to be the one to hand it out.

He threw the crumpled paper into the corner of his cell with a ferociousness kin to that of a chimera. Had he thought to read on, he would have seen the next article on the front page entitled,

**HARRY POTTER ADJUSTS TO LIFE AT HOGWARTS  
Hogwarts Students Share Impressions of a New Classmate**

But Sirius Black did not think to read on. Sirius Black did not think at all. Sirius Black was already gone.

A few cells down the hall, Fudge's pace increased as the laughter emanating out of Sirius Black's cell shifted seamlessly to screams of rage.

* * *

**Weeks passed** and turned into months. As it always seemed to, quite against his will, a routine began to establish itself in Harry's life. March found Harry much the same as February had, and much the same as January had before that. Rise early, walk on the grounds, class, lunch, class, dinner, study, bed, repeat.

Those changes which did arise, arose slowly such that Harry barely even noticed them until they were already ingrained in his day. One of them now sat across the Gryffindor house table, discussing the detailed study schedule she had drawn up to prepare for end-of-term exams, still four months away. Hermione Granger had somehow managed to make herself something of a companion to Harry. Not a friend—Harry didn't have friends—but she sat with Harry and Neville at meals and helped Harry with homework, always unsolicited and usually unwanted. It seemed to be Hermione's new mission in life to help Harry catch up in all his classes. But she was a good sort of person, if rather too dedicated to her school work and too firm a believer in rules. Neville was clearly rather in awe of her, and Harry gathered that at times, Hermione's help was all that was keeping Neville from failing marks.

For Neville Longbottom and Hermione Granger were quite on opposite ends of the class rank. It had not taken Harry long to realise that Neville was far from the best and brightest of their year; his spellwork was abysmal, his charms frankly frightening, and his potions laughable (or at least they would have been laughable had Snape not been so horrible to Neville any time he made even the slightest error). But contrary to Neville's belief, none of these shortcomings were in anyway due to a lack in intelligence, determination, or magical power—Harry was quite certain that all three of these were present in spades—Rather it seemed that Neville lacked the confidence necessary for his spells to take form.

Harry knew all too well the importance of one's convictions when performing magic. When he had been teaching himself magic as a child, still unsure if his ability was something in which to take pride and pleasure or fear and shame, he had frequently had difficulty maintaining control. Just a little waffling and an attempt at a spell could produce something quite different or nothing at all. After covering the old discarded mattress that had once been his bed with chocolate pudding when he had simply been trying to cast a warming charm, he had come to the realisation that conviction was everything in magic. And so Harry took every opportunity to raise Neville's self-esteem and he noticed that Hermione did likewise.

The one subject Neville truly excelled in was Herbology. Plants seemed to be a passion of Neville's, and his conversations with Harry habitually demonstrated this. Up in the dormitory, Neville even had some kind of stunted cactus in a pot on his bedside table, and Harry frequently caught Neville gazing fondly at it for all the world as if it were some loveable pet. Herbology was consequently the only subject where Neville challenged Hermione's standing as top-in-everything. Harry smiled to see Hermione sweating as she battled to keep up with a completely oblivious Neville, for they usually worked together in this subject.

Harry, meanwhile, continued to work with Susan Bones in Herbology. While he rarely contributed much to them, Harry was surprised to find that he really quite enjoyed his conversations with Susan. Both her father and aunt were high-ranking Ministry officials and so it startled Harry to find that Susan actually shared many of Harry's misgivings regarding the politics of the wizarding government. In fact, to hear her tell it, it seemed her entire family had its doubts on that score. Why then they chose to employ themselves in such an establishment was beyond Harry's understanding, but it felt rude to inquire further.

Harry also learned that Susan had had an aunt and uncle who had fought vehemently against Voldemort in the war; they and their three children had all been murdered much as Harry's parents had. She had seen first-hand the destruction Voldemort could wreak on a family. This seemed to give Susan a different perspective on Harry's history from the rest of their peers, one that he found quite refreshing.

"My Auntie says"—Harry found it quite remarkable how many of Susan's sentences began with this phrase; clearly Madam Amelia Bones was quite an influence in her niece's life—"he isn't really gone. You-Know-Who, I mean. She says he'll be back soon enough, and there'll be another war, maybe even worse than the first. Auntie's always trying to convince Cornelius Fudge to let her send some Aurors to Albania to track down whatever's left of You-Know-Who and kill him once and for all. But Fudge won't spare the resources. Says he refuses to pay for some crackpot expedition that will accomplish nothing. He's in complete denial that You-Know-Who's not gone for good."

For all that Harry found Susan's conversations thought-provoking, however, their camaraderie rarely extended far outside the greenhouses. Susan had her own group of friends who occupied her free time and, being in different houses, their paths rarely crossed during class times. But they smiled at each other and exchanged pleasantries when they passed in the halls or at mealtimes, an act which, for the first month or two after Harry's arrival at Hogwarts, invariably had Susan's gaggle of Hufflepuff friends staring open-mouthed or whispering to each other.

While Harry's rapport with Neville, Hermione, and Susan had been unexpected, it had at least been gradual and not all together sudden. There was one association, however, which not only arrived unexpectedly, but also arrived with a suddenness that Harry would later realise only the Weasley Twins could manage.

It had been a night in late January and Harry had been sitting on a stone bench in an alcove down a little-used corridor on the sixth floor of West Tower. He had discovered this place by accident a couple of weeks prior when he had been attempting to find his way to the owlry to visit Hedwig. He considered it a serendipitous find and began going there often to read in the evenings, for the common room was far too crowded and boisterous for his tastes. No one ever came up here; the corridor seemed to lead to nowhere in particular, the rooms off it unused, dusty, and draughty. Harry was completely caught off guard, therefore, when Fred and George Weasley appeared, apparently from nowhere, and unceremoniously plunked themselves down on either side of him on his bench.

"So, young Harry. How are we liking Hogwarts thus far?" said the one Harry thought was Fred.

"Been keeping out of trouble, I don't hope?" said the other.

They spoke as if continuing a conversation they had started earlier with Harry. This was quite preposterous, of course, for not only had no such conversation occurred, but Harry had in fact never spoken to the Weasley twins at all. He had noticed them, of course. It was very hard not to notice them; stocky, flaming redheads who were identical down the very last freckle, Fred and George Weasley did rather stand out, something neither of them seemed to mind. The pair had a flare for mischief which they seemed to enjoy best when well-publicised.

"Yes, er no…I mean…" Harry stumbled, caught off guard by their abrupt arrival and the double question. "I'm getting by, I suppose…" He turned back to his book, hoping this strange pair would take the hint and leave him alone.

"Just getting by?"

"Would think you'd be appreciating this glorious display of academia..."

"The melding of young minds…"

"The subtle aromas of knowledge…"

"The stifled laughter of well-disciplined children…"

"The covert attempts of students to throttle each other when the teachers aren't looking…"

Harry wondered if everything out of those mouths carried that layer of sarcasm. He lowered his book, annoyed. This was _his_ place, damn it. _ His _time. Why else would he be up in this dank corridor if not to be left alone? The twins should understand that. Deciding that perhaps his earlier hint had been too subtle, Harry resolved to drop one that a deaf, blind, and dumb man couldn't fail to catch.

"Well, maybe if I was left in _peace_ every once in a while, I might appreciate those things a bit more, but as it is, with people staring at me and whispering about me behind my back, and _tailing me everywhere I go_,"—he emphasised this last—"it's rather difficult to find much room for appreciation.

"Also it'd help if I didn't get lost in this accursed castle every time I stepped out of the dormitory," he added, more to himself. Snape had given him a detention that morning for being late to Potions and Harry's insistence that it was hardly his fault if a staircase which had always led down to the first floor suddenly decided it would rather lead to the third had fallen on deaf ears. Harry was still bitter, especially when he pictured Malfoy's smirking face as Snape instructed Harry to report to his office Thursday evening.

Fred and George looked at each other over Harry's head at this point, and Harry had the strong impression that an entire conversation was contained within that look.

"We could help with that part…" said George slowly. "The getting lost part, I mean."

"And it would help him avoid those who are annoying him," added Fred. "But could we bear to give it up?"

"We do have it memorised by heart. We hardly need it anymore."

"That's true…Still…"

"I know. All those fond memories…"

"That time we charmed Mrs Norris hot pink."

"That time we filled all the cauldrons in the Potions classroom with dragon dung."

"That time we cursed Wood's Quidditch robes so that any time they got rained on, Wood would stay soggy for a week."

"Ah, that was a good one. No Quidditch practice in foul weather for a whole month."

"Shame he eventually figured it out."

Harry's head swung back and forth as though he were watching a tennis match from somewhere situated under the net, as he attempted (and failed) to follow this conversation.

"But about…you know…" continued George once the pair of them were done with a moment's silent reminiscence.

"His need _is _greater than ours…"

"And we would have needed to find someone younger to pass it on to next year anyway. The fine work of Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs deserves to be _used_. It deserves to be passed down to the next generation of trouble-makers before we leave Hogwarts."

"And I think our young Mr Potter might have some potential in that department."

"Heir to the title of Hogwarts's Trouble-Maker-in-Chief? Perhaps…with the right coaching…"

"So we're agreed?" said Fred.

"Agreed," said George.

And with that word, Fred pulled a very old, very grubby piece of parchment from an inner pocket in his robes and slapped it down over Harry's book with never a by-your-leave. Harry stared at it. It was completely blank but for a few stains and creases.

"What's that supposed to be?" he said at last.

"This, Harry, is the secret of our success," said George, patting the parchment fondly.

"It's a wrench giving it to you," said Fred, "but it's the right thing to do. We bequeath it to you."

"And what do I need with a bit of old parchment?" Harry asked.

"A bit of old parchment!" said Fred, closing his eyes with a grimace as though Harry had mortally offended him.

"This bit of old parchment has taught us more than all the teachers in this school," said George.

"You're winding me up," said Harry, looking down at the ragged piece of paper before him. There was something brown and sticky on one of the corners, and Harry suspected it would be all over his book now.

"Oh, are we?" George took out his wand, touched the parchment lightly, and said, _"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."_

And at once, thin ink lines began to spread like a spider's web from the point that George's wand had touched. They joined and crisscrossed, fanning into every corner of the parchment. Then words began to blossom across the top—great curly green words that proclaimed:

_Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs  
Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers  
are proud to present  
__**The Marauder's Map**_

It was a map showing every detail of the Hogwarts castle and grounds. But what was truly remarkable were the tiny ink dots moving around it, each labelled with a name in minuscule writing. Annoyance forgotten, Harry bent over it, mouth open, astounded. He could see that Remus was just leaving the headmaster's office where Dumbledore's dot remained. He could see that Professor Sprout was moving about Greenhouse three, that Snape was in his office, that Malfoy was in the Slytherin common room. And as Harry's eye found his own dot, sandwiched between Fred and George's, he noticed something else.

His head jerked up and gazed down the hall. But no. There was nothing there but a very large painting of a grandmotherly witch, apparently making peppermint humbugs. Harry looked back at the map.

"So you've noticed already, have you?" said Fred who had been studying Harry as he took in the map.

"Secret passage," said George, tracing a corridor the map claimed let out not five metres down the hall where the painting of the humbug-making witch hung. "Leads right down to the kitchens. Fred and I were just coming back from a late night snack when we found you here."

"Hogwarts is full of them. Secret passages, I mean," said Fred. "They can be a real help if you know where they are."

And as Harry's eyes travelled up and down familiar corridors, he saw that Fred was right; Hogwarts _was _full of them. And some of them seemed to lead right out of the castle and off the edge of the map. Off the boundaries of the Hogwarts grounds.

A thought tugged at Harry's brain. A way out. Away from all of this. He chewed his lip. No. He couldn't do that to Remus. Not now. But he would file the thought away in his brain. For the future. Just in case.

"Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs," George was continuing, patting the heading of the map. "We owe them so much."

"Noble men, working tirelessly to help a new generation of lawbreakers," said Fred solemnly.

"Right," said George briskly. "Don't forget to wipe it after you've used it—"

"—or anyone can read it," finished Fred, warningly.

"Just tap it again and say, 'Mischief managed!' And it'll go blank."

Harry was silent for a moment studying the map. Then he looked up at each of the identical faces in turn. It didn't make sense. Nothing in this world was free. What did they want with him? "Why are you giving this to me?" he asked at last.

Fred and George looked at each other and shrugged. "It's like we said," replied Fred.

"Your need is greater than ours," said George.

"Besides, who else are we going to give it to? Our dearest little brother, Ron?"

George snorted. "We're going to have to watch that one. Don't think I could bear it if we ended up with another prefect in the family."

"Can you imagine?" said Fred. "Two Percys sitting around the dinner table every holiday?" George shuddered.

"So, young Harry," Fred continued in a pompous sort of voice, "mind you behave yourself."

And with one final wink from George and a smirk from Fred, they were off down the hall back toward Gryffindor Tower.

And so it was that Harry became the proud owner of the Marauder's Map.

After that day, Fred and George seemed to get it into their heads to take Harry under their collective wing. Harry hardly saw this as a favour, and indeed he often went out of his way to avoid their attentions. This was not because he did not like Fred and George—truth be told, he quite enjoyed their company. They made him laugh, something very few people ever managed, and while it was clear that they had approached Harry as a reaction to his fame, they made no pretences about it as most of the gawkers of Hogwarts did. Most of the others Harry had met had tried too hard to make it seem as though they had barely ever heard of Harry Potter. As though he were just the same as any other new student. He might not have minded this, if they were at least good enough actors to make it convincing, but as it was, Harry found it exhausting. The Weasley Twins were unashamed to make blatant jokes and tease Harry about his celebrity. It was strangely refreshing.

And after a time, Harry realised that the way the twins treated him was not at all unlike how they treated their younger siblings, Ron and Ginny. They included Harry, and through this, Ron and Ginny, who seemed to follow Fred and George's lead in many respects, began seeing him in a similar, if less immediately apparent, light. It was strange, but somehow, even though they barely knew him, the Weasleys made Harry feel almost as if he were a part of a large, caring, and slightly dysfunctional family.

No, Harry did not avoid the Weasley Twins for themselves. He avoided them because they had a tendency to attract a great deal of unwanted attention toward Harry. Fred and George were the type of people who were wont to draw every eye to them whenever they walked into a room. They were loud, rambunctious, and uninhibited, none of which could ever be used to describe Harry. No, Harry preferred to spend his time with Neville or Hermione. They were something of outcasts, after all. No heads turned when they entered a room. And that was precisely what Harry needed.

Of course, he would have liked it even better to simply be left on his own and not associate with anybody, even Neville and Hermione. But something held Harry back from entirely following his instincts in that department. It had been a small event, inconsequential in the eyes of most, but Harry thought of it frequently.

It had been a day in mid-February. Snow had been falling from the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall as Harry ate his lunch with Neville and Hermione as he always did. Abruptly, something very cold and very wet had slid down the back of his shirt. Fred and George were laughing as Harry leapt to his feet, clawing at the collar of his shirt in an attempt to extract the tightly packed snowball they had magicked there. What had followed had been a furious snowball fight right there over the Gryffindor table, by the end of which, most of the house had been involved, conjuring snowballs and pelting them at each other until the air was thick with flying snow. The war had culminated in Fred and George lifting Harry bodily and tossing him in a large pile of freshly conjured, powdery snow. Harry had emerged dripping wet, and he couldn't help but laugh along with everyone else.

It was only then that Harry thought to glance up at the staff table, wondering if they were all about to get into terrible trouble. Fortunately, Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape had both already left the table and the rest of the staff seemed too amused to be bothered with punishing anyone. But it was then that Harry's eyes met Dumbledore's and what Harry saw there made him want to go and live as a hermit in the Forbidden Forest and never talk to anyone ever again. The headmaster was giving Harry the most ridiculously self-satisfied look, for all the world as though Harry adjusting to Hogwarts life and making friends and acting like a normal teenage boy had been all his doing. Harry had grit his teeth and given him a defiant look before turning away, prepared to sit back down at the table and not speak or even look at any of his peers for the rest of the meal when he saw Remus.

Remus was gazing down at Harry from the staff table and there was a look in his eyes that Harry had never seen before: a glowing, overjoyed pride. Harry couldn't be sure from the distance across the hall, but it seemed as though there was a tear caught in one eye, reflecting the light. Harry held his gaze for a moment then turned back to the house table and his lunch. He glanced around at his classmates, all looking euphoric, still flushed, still out of breath from their snowball-pelting pursuits. He took a deep breath, glanced up at Remus one more time to see that the older man was still watching him, and deliberately struck up a conversation with Neville about what he thought they would be studying next in Herbology.

And at that moment, Harry knew. He would never admit it to anyone for anything, but he knew. He knew he wanted to see that tender look in Remus's eyes again. He coveted it, craved it. And his desire to receive that look outweighed his desire to annoy the headmaster by far.

.

Despite the progress Harry had made in his affairs some of his classmates, it was not to say that all Harry's relationships with his peers at Hogwarts were so promising. Draco Malfoy and his gaggle of Slytherin followers had apparently made it their mission in life to torment Harry wherever possible. Harry couldn't explain even to himself why it irritated him so much to see Draco Malfoy strutting about the castle as if he owned the place. He supposed he had just met too many Draco Malfoys in his life; too many bullies who felt that it was their prerogative to go about picking on those weaker than they were just because they could. Malfoy reminded Harry of a street boy who had once beat Harry up for daring to work the same part of town as him; he reminded Harry of a shopkeeper who had once chased Harry halfway across London because he felt that Harry's presence hurt his business; and he reminded Harry of his uncle. And so, Harry felt his blood boiling every time he saw Malfoy teasing Hermione or tripping Neville or mocking Ron. And now he seemed to have set his sights on Harry. Hermione said it was because he resented the attention that Harry got, but Harry had to wonder if it was something more than that.

One blustery day at the start of March, following a morning Potions class, Harry and Hermione had joined the throng headed up to the Great Hall for lunch. Neville had been kept back by Snape who was setting him a detention for melting his second cauldron that week. Most unfortunately, Malfoy and his sycophants were walking up just behind them. Malfoy was careful to speak loudly enough to be sure Harry would hear his every word.

"Honestly. You'd never know Longbottom was pure-blood. What a pathetic excuse for a wizard. Completely useless. Might as well be a Squib." Crabbe and Goyle, two of Malfoys thickset, thuggish cronies, were guffawing stupidly. "And _that's _who Potter decides to associate with? Him and those blood-traitor Weasleys and that Mudblood Granger?" Beside him, Hermione was walking with her chin high, determinedly ignoring Malfoy, but Harry's teeth were grinding together, never mind the fact that he didn't know what half these words meant. "Honestly," Malfoy was continuing, "some people have no pride in what it means to be a wizard. Then again, he's a half-blood, isn't he? Maybe he surrounds himself with blood-traitors, Mudbloods, and Squibs because the stench reminds him of his dear, Mudblood mother—"

And with that, Harry had had enough. He wasn't aware of deciding to do it, but before anyone could stop him, before Pansy Parkinson could cut off her shriek of laughter, before Hermione could do more than shout, "Harry! Don't!" he had whipped around so fast and without even bothering to draw his wand, he blasted Malfoy backwards to hit the wall with a loud CRASH. Harry was breathing hard and fast, his hand was raised, palm toward Malfoy, muscles tensed to the point of aching. Malfoy was crumpled on the floor, completely winded. They were just inside the crowded Entrance Hall and everyone in the immediate vicinity fell silent, then began muttering to his or her neighbour mutedly. The Slytherins were all looking completely unnerved and Harry was dimly aware of Hermione speaking very fast, her academic interest apparently winning out over her disapproval. "How did you do that? You did that without a wand! I remember reading once in _A Guide to Medieval Sorcery_…"

Malfoy tried to get up, but he doubled over with a painful, wheezing cry. Harry suspected broken ribs. Most satisfactory. Well, satisfactory until he heard the words "What's going on here," in a very familiar voice. The crowd parted easily for Remus and a few seconds later found him surveying first Malfoy, still doubled up on the floor, and then Harry still standing with his hand raised. Slowly Harry lowered his hand. He could not bring himself to meet Remus's gaze. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see Remus studying him for a moment before he said, "Vincent, Gregory, if you would be so kind as to escort Draco up to the hospital wing. Harry. My office." And so Harry followed Remus up the stairs toward Remus's office, eyes all the while determinedly on his feet.

When they had entered his office, Remus held the door for Harry and gestured him toward the chair opposite his desk. As he sat, looking determinedly at his hands folded in his lap, Harry heard the door close behind him with a snap. Remus walked around the desk, seated himself opposite Harry, and sat silently surveying him over entwined fingers. After about a minute of tense silence, Harry could take it no more and he looked up to meet Remus's gaze. Looked up to meet with that horrible look of disappointment.

"Do you want to tell me what just happened?" Remus said calmly.

"He insulted my mother," Harry ground out through clenched teeth, still fuming over what Malfoy had said.

Remus sighed. "And so you thought you would…" he trailed off, waiting for Harry to finish his sentence.

"I didn't," replied Harry. "I didn't think. I just…acted. He was saying all these horrible things about Neville and Hermione and the Weasleys, and I'd just…had enough."

Remus sighed again and massaged his temple. On closer inspection, Harry thought he looked ill again. This would be the third illness since Harry had come to Hogwarts and Harry was starting to get seriously worried. Could he have cancer or something? Did cancer even exist in the wizarding world? Or could they just spell it away? Whatever was wrong with Remus, it didn't seem to be something that could be easily cured.

"Harry. I get it. I do. You were defending your friends. Your father would have done the same for me when we were at school. But Harry, there are right ways of dealing with things like this and there are wrong ways. You can't go about hexing everyone who crosses you. Next time, come to me, and I'll handle it. I know, I know." He added when Harry made to argue. "Easier said than done—schoolboys' code and all that. No one wants to be the snitch. I was a teenager once too, you know. But Harry, if you keep this up, you could get yourself into serious trouble. Next time, I might not be the one who catches you at it, and the other teachers are not nearly so forgiving of violence in the corridors."

Harry went back to studying his hands. Yes, he had been fortunate that it was Remus who had caught him instead of Snape or McGonagall or one of the others. Fortunate in that any of the other teachers would have thrown him in detention for a month. But as Harry saw the disappointment in Remus's face, he couldn't help but feel that that look was worse than a year's worth of detentions.

Harry couldn't bring himself to respond, and so Remus simply studied him for a moment before saying, "Alright, off you go. Don't want to miss lunch."

Harry rose and walked to the door, but he paused with his hand on the knob. He turned back but still did not quite look at Remus. "Remus…what's a Mudblood?"

Remus let out his breath in a great, whooshing sigh. "Is that what Malfoy said about your mother?" Harry finally looked up at Remus and nodded. He saw a vessel pulsing in Remus's temple, though he appeared calm, if rather sad. He pointed at the chair Harry had just vacated and Harry crossed back over to it and resumed his seat.

"Mudblood," he said slowly, "is a derogatory word used to describe a witch or wizard who is of Muggle parentage. It is considered one of the most offensive words in wizarding society." When he noticed the puzzled expression on Harry's face he continued. "The wizarding world has a long and frankly disgusting history surrounding prejudices based on the so-called 'purity' of a person's blood. There are those who believe that by having a bloodline free from Muggle 'taint,' they are better than those of us who have Muggle relations."

"But…that's rubbish, isn't it?" asked Harry, striving to understand. "Hermione's the top in our year and both her parents are dentists! That hardly seems to imply that being a Muggle-born makes one less powerfully magical."

"Precisely. And your mother was one of the most extraordinary witches I've ever known. There's absolutely no scientific basis for the claims that purity is in anyway correlated to magical prowess. But the idea has been passed down from generation to generation of pure-bloods, and it has been the foundation for a disgraceful amount of intolerance over the years. It was, in many ways, the underpinning of Voldemort's rise to power. He preached of the preciousness of wizarding blood and of protecting its purity. It gained him quite the following not so long ago.

"Since his downfall, people like to think that we've made great strides in stamping out such bigotries. But really, I think most people have just become better adept at hiding their prejudices, rather than it really being eradicated."

He was silent for a moment as Harry processed this. At length he said, very gently, "He should not have said that about your mother." Harry nodded moodily. "Go on," Remus said after a bit. "You really should get some lunch before your next class." Harry rose and moved to the door.

"Oh, and Harry," Remus called after him. Harry looked back. "I will be speaking to Malfoy about this once Madam Pomfrey has had the chance to patch him up. Intolerance is not tolerated at this school. Nonetheless, while I do comprehend your reaction, as a teacher, you do know why I can't condone it?" He waited for Harry's answering nod, and then he dismissed him.

As Harry left, he passed Snape who was gliding down the corridor carrying a goblet which was smoking faintly. Snape stopped in his tracks in the middle of the hall, eyes narrowing, as he saw Harry exiting Remus's office. He stood stock still, head turning to watch Harry's progression down the hall. Harry defiantly met his cold, dark eyes with his own until he had passed him.

Snape waited until Harry had rounded the corner before knocking on Remus's office door.

.

The next day, when Harry, Neville, and Hermione walked into the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, they once again found Snape there waiting for them instead of Remus. Harry's heart plummeted. Just how sick was Remus that he would miss classes this often?

The minute she saw Professor Snape, Hermione plunged into her bag and withdrew what looked to be some kind of almanac. She ruffled through the pages before reaching the point she was looking for. Her eyes flew back and forth as she skimmed the page and then she snapped the book shut and replaced it, a strangely self-satisfied look on her face. Harry glanced at Neville who simply shrugged and led the way to three chairs near the back of the class—Neville always preferred to sit near the back whenever Snape was teaching.

Throughout Snape's long and detailed lecture on Petrification, Harry's mind was on Remus. Since Harry had opened up to Remus about the incident with the Death Eaters, things had changed between them. They had not, as Harry had originally hoped, returned to normal. Rather normal had been redefined. Normal with Remus now had somehow become closer, more intimate. Harry knew that Remus was still waiting for something from Harry, but he never pressed the issue. Harry was ashamed to admit it, but it was not simply worry for Remus's well-being that hurt him. It was also that he would have hoped that Remus would have confided in Harry if he were seriously ill.

Harry supposed he could have simply asked Remus about his chronic illness, but somehow discussing his medical records felt _too _intimate. Too personal. What business was it of Harry's? And so he kept his mouth shut. He had discussed it once with Neville and Hermione. Neville had merely shrugged and said that Professor Lupin had been like that ever since he first started teaching at Hogwarts. Hermione had suddenly become very interested in her dinner and had remained tight-lipped. Harry had the strong impression that she knew something she wasn't telling. But again, what right did Harry have to press the issue?

Still. With three months of his projected stay at Hogwarts nearly down, Harry found himself hoping that Remus would confide in him. Harry had grown to rely so much on Remus. It hurt that the feeling did not appear to be all together returned.

* * *

**There was a** steady _drip, drip, drip_ of water as it slid from the roof to land with a splash on the window sill outside Dumbledore's office. He studied it with apparent fascination. The properties of water were really quite extraordinary. Unnatural. And yet there was nothing more natural. The way the molecules clung to each other, strove with all their being to defy gravity, to hold valiantly against all other forces…one would almost think cohesion was the result of magic rather than physics.

Outside the sun was shining brightly. Buds of grass were poking their heads up through the light crusting of snow that was left. The ice on the roof was melting, sliding off to pool on Dumbledore's window sill or others like it. It was Dumbledore's favourite time of year, early Spring. When against all odds, the smallest sprout, the weakest, freshly hatched bird, the faintest ray of sunlight forced its way through the snow, the cold, the darkness that is winter. They seemed so outmatched, and yet their success was as inevitable as the rising of the sun.

A knock sounded on Dumbledore's office door. He tore his eyes away from the hypnotising drip of water, and called, "Enter."

Remus Lupin teetered into the room, swaying with exhaustion, dark shadows under his eyes. "Remus! My dear boy, come in and sit down. You look absolutely tuckered. Tea?" And without waiting for a response, he reached for the copper kettle on the shelf behind his desk and tapped it with his wand to bring it to a boil. Remus was just easing himself into a chair as Dumbledore added copious amounts of milk and honey to two teacups.

"I wasn't expecting to see you today, my boy." It was, after all, just the afternoon after the full moon. Remus usually kept to his bed for at least two days. "No problems last night, I hope."

"No, no, nothing like that," Remus assured him, his voice a hoarse croak. He raked his fingers through greying hair; it was difficult to see, month after month, the toll Remus's condition took on him. "Just a little tired of being stuck in bed, I suppose." He took a gulp of the tea and grimaced slightly. Dumbledore nodded understandingly and waited patiently while Remus drank another gulp and set down his teacup with a sigh.

"But there was something I'd been meaning to speak with you about, Headmaster."

"Ah, yes? And what was that?"

Remus was silent for a moment, apparently collecting his thoughts. Then he said abruptly, "Easter hols are coming up next week."

"True," agreed Dumbledore slowly. He thought he knew where Remus was going, and he was not at all sure it was such a good idea.

"I was rather hoping…That is, if it would be alright, I'd like to invite Harry down to Sussex to stay with me for a few days. I think it would do him some good to get away from all this for a bit. Help him to relax.

Dumbledore did not respond right away. He rose to his feet and crossed over to Fawkes, stroking the red and gold plumage. "I had another letter from Cornelius yesterday," Dumbledore said at last.

"From Fudge? What did he have to say?"

"He is insisting on an audience with Harry. According to him, he has given us 'quite enough time to bandy about with the boy' and is now asserting that Harry should be ready to divulge everything to the Ministry."

"But they can't…he's not!" Remus spluttered.

"No. No Harry most definitely is not ready to divulge _anything _to the Ministry. And I anticipate disaster if they push the point. But I can only hold them off for so much longer, Remus."

They fell silent for a moment, both contemplating the difficulties this could cause. Then, "Take him, Remus. But only for a few days. If Fudge loses patience and decides to make a visit and finds the boy not here…there will be hell to pay. But I agree with you. Sussex would do Harry some good. Some time with just the two of you; it might get him talking again."

Remus nodded. "Just a few days," he affirmed. "Thank you, Headmaster." He rose stiffly and made his way slowly to the door.

"Remus," Dumbledore called him to a halt. "I hate to issue a deadline; I know these things can't be rushed. But we're running out of time. Fast."

Remus gave Dumbledore one last desperate look before nodding despondently. Dumbledore hated putting this pressure on him. He knew Remus had it quite hard enough—knew Harry did too. But it was too important. Harry was too important.

Apart, they were one sprout, one blade of grass fighting against all the snows of winter. But together… They needed to be unified. Cohesive. Like water. Outside, a droplet of water fell from the roof, and while, yes, it fell the seven stories to the ground far below, it fell cohesively.

* * *

**"Harry. A** **word** please," Remus called as the bell rang to signal the end of Thursday's Defence Against the Dark Arts class. Harry glanced up at Remus, then finished packing up his bag before heading in Remus's direction.

Remus shuffled papers on his desk to give his hands something to do as the rest of the class filed out. Why did he feel so nervous? He licked his chapped lips glancing up to watch the progression of students out the door, all chatting happily in preparation for dinner. Harry looked back at them too, both waiting until the door had closed behind the last one.

Remus stacked a few books on top of each other, shifting them to another place on his desk, even though they had been perfectly fine where they were. As Remus was collecting his thoughts, thinking of how best to word his request, Harry was the first to break the silence.

"Are you feeling better?"

"What?" said Remus, distractedly. "Oh, yes. Much. Thank you, Harry."

"We were all very relieved to see you back. Everyone's a lot happier to come to this class when you're teaching it than when Snape is." Harry smiled good-naturedly and Remus attempted to return it.

"I know _Professor _Snape's teaching style is a little…fierce," Remus replied, "But he's a brilliant man. We're lucky to have him to take over when I'm…indisposed." Harry seemed to be waiting for Remus to say something else, but Remus really didn't know what that was. He thought Harry looked disappointed when Remus changed the subject.

"What I really wanted to talk to you about was the Easter holidays."

"Oh," replied Harry. A crease appearing between his brows. "Right."

"I was wondering if perhaps you…That is, I thought maybe you would like to…" Harry had leaned forward, eyebrows raised expectantly. _Oh, just spit it out, Remus._ "Would you like to come to Sussex. With me. For a few days."

Harry seemed entirely taken aback. He stared at Remus for a moment, eyes wide. _Relax, Remus. It's no big deal. Of course he'd rather stay here, it doesn't mean anything._

"Go back to Sussex. With you," Harry repeated slowly.

"Well, of course if you don't want to…" Remus hastened to say. "Just thought you might like to, you know…get away." He turned back to rearranging books.

"Really? We can go back? When can we leave?" Harry was speaking fast, and if Remus wasn't much mistaken, _excitedly_.

"You…you want to?" Remus asked, looking back up into Harry's face to judge his expression.

"Yeah," said Harry earnestly. "I want to." And then a smile broke out over Harry's face. A smile of simple, unadulterated pleasure.

The snows were melting.

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry sorry sorry! I had a really busy term and then my hard-drive crashed right when I was almost finished with this chapter and I lost everything! Finding the inspiration to write a chapter once is hard enough, finding it to write a chapter a second time is near impossible… And what's worse is that I also lost the next two chapters which I had written in advance! But I finally got my new lap top, so huzzah! Anyway, sadly back to school in a week, but I'll try to get another chapter out soon. (And you know what helps inspire fast updates? REVIEWS!)

P.S. I'm ¼ of a vet! To celebrate, I went to Mexico where I spent three weeks cutting the gonads off of stray dogs. Soooo much fun! (Hey. You have your idea of a vacation, and I have mine.)


	19. 18 Number One

**A/N:** Dear reader. By the end of this chapter, I fear you may hate me. I do apologise. But until that point, please enjoy.

* * *

**Chapter 18  
Number One  
**

**He lay on his** stomach, forehead pressed into the gravelly sand. He took deep gasping breaths, his muscles trembling from cold and exertion. A wave crashed over his back and he felt his body being pulled back toward the open water, but he dug his fingers into the sandy shore, determined not to lose his hold on what he had fought so hard to gain. The water was icy cold but it already soaked the rags he called clothing, it already soaked his matted hair, his clammy skin. The cold had already penetrated his very heart, so what harm could it do now?

After a moment that felt like a lifetime, he pushed himself onto his back. His chest rose and fell as he gulped down air. He looked up at the sky. It had been so long since he had seen the stars. He had to move. They would be looking for him soon, and this coastline would be the first place they tried. He had to move, but for a moment, he just lay there and stared at the pinpricks of light so far in the distance, so unattainable, and yet somehow, so full of hope. They lied, of course. But for a moment, he let himself believe them.

* * *

**Remus awoke** with a start. Something was amiss. He lay perfectly still, listening to the sounds of the old house, trying to determine precisely what had woken him. He and Harry had arrived back in Sussex the night before. Remus always slept fitfully when he first switched to a different bed, coming back to Sussex from Hogwarts or vice versa; he knew not to expect the best night's sleep. But something told him that was not the reason for waking this time. Something wasn't right. He stilled his breathing, the better to listen. He heard the waves crashing against the chalky cliffs, the wind rustling through the trees, he heard the usual creaks of the old house, the gurgling of the pipes…

Snatching up his wand from the bedside table and his dressing gown from a hook by the hearth, Remus stole quietly out of bed and over to the bedroom door, opening it soundlessly. He paused here, listening again. He was sure of it now. Something was off—he just couldn't pinpoint what.

He made his way down the hall. At Harry's door he paused before pushing the door open a crack. Through the darkness, he could just make out Harry curled on his bed, sound asleep and safe. He closed the door with a soft click and turned toward the stairs.

He knew this house well—he had lived here is whole life—and so he knew which stairs would groan, which floorboards were loose, which hinges would creak. He crept silently down the stairs and paused again in the hall to listen. And there it was. So low, Remus could not even begin to imagine how it had woken him. A soft and rhythmic _tap…tap…tap_. It was coming from the kitchen.

Gripping his wand firmly before him, he took a deep steadying breath and kicked open the double-hinged door. Bursting though, his wand automatically zeroed in on the source of the noise, and he found himself pointing at…the kitchen sink. As he looked at it, a droplet of water fell from the faucet to land with a splash in the copper sink. Then another. And another_. Tap…tap…tap…_

Remus let out a low, self-deprecating chuckle, dropping his wand arm to his side while his other hand came up to run across his tired eyes. Then he walked over to the tap and turned it off. He paused and, after a second's thought, turned it back on and, tossing his wand down on the counter, simultaneously reached up to the cupboard for a glass.

Turning his back on the now silent sink, he leaned back against the counter, taking a sip from his glass. He was not usually this jumpy. Maybe it was just the aftermath of the full moon. His senses were always rather out of whack for the few days following. Or maybe he just had too much on his mind. Harry had not pressed him about the alleged illness which sentenced him to seclusion once a month, but Remus was sure Harry must be getting suspicious. He had to tell him. Soon. Before the next full moon. If Harry found out by other means…Remus doubted Harry would ever trust him again.

Remus drained the rest of his glass in one gulp, quickly rinsed it out and placed it in the dish drain. Pushing off the counter, he turned and made his way out of the kitchen and back up to bed. He yawned as he crossed the hall on his way to the staircase. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would tell Harry. But tonight, he must sleep.

Half a moment later, however, he froze, foot on the first step and eyes toward the sitting room. Then it happened again. The curtain on the opposite wall moved gently, rustling, barely perceivably. Slowly and quietly, Remus stole across the room to the window. Placing each foot carefully on the floor, eyes never leaving the curtain, muscles tensed, his arm reached out, fingers grasped the drapery, and in one sudden movement which seemed incongruous to his previous cautious attitude, he jerked the curtain aside. And he found himself facing nothing but an open window. The wind blew again and the curtain rustled around him.

_Strange_. He was sure this window hadn't been open when he had gone to bed. Harry could have opened it, he supposed, but he had retired to his room before Remus had. And why would he have opened it? It was still chilly out, after all.

Still frowning, Remus reached out and swung the window shut. He secured the latch and jiggled the window to test it. The latch held. Very strange.

"Hello, Remus."

Remus whipped around so quickly he tangled himself in the drapes as he fumbled in the pocket of his dressing gown for his wand. But his hand met with nothing but lint, and when he had finally extracted himself from the curtain enough to look up at the owner of the gruff voice which had spoken from behind him, his eyes met first with a very familiar wand pointed directly at his chest. A _very _familiar wand.

The man before him let out a bark of laughter and Remus's wide eyes travelled up from the wand to meet sunken eyes is a hollowed, waxy face.

"Not you're cleanest draw, old friend. Not exactly your usual flawless technique. Thank you for the wand, by the way; so kind of you to lend it to me. This evening's task would have been so much more difficult without it." And Remus abruptly realised he had left his wand in the kitchen when he had been getting a drink. "You've become complacent, Remus. Is this what happens when we don't have a war going to keep you busy?"

Quite of their own accord, Remus's eyes had returned to stare at the wand which was pointed menacingly at his chest, but at this strange man's familiar tone, he looked back at him—really looked. The man was skeletally thin, bones jutting out, seeming to stretch his skin. He was dressed in rags so dirty he could not even begin to guess what colour they had once been. His hair and beard tangled to his elbows, and Remus was sure this man had not had a trim nor shave in at least a decade. The angles of his face were sharply defined, lacking as he did even an ounce of fat. But in the depths of their sockets, a pair of grey eyes glinted out at him, filled with an uncanny mirth.

"Who are you? How do you know me? What do you want?" Remus cursed himself for being unable to keep his eyes from darting down toward the wand. Slowly, he moved with his back to the wall to extract himself from the curtain. The stranger's wand moved with him, never leaving Remus's chest.

The man let out another bark of laughter. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised to find that you have forgotten me. You forgot me the very day they carted me away didn't you? Just got on with your life and left me to rot."

Remus was shaking his head. He had no idea what was going on. No idea who this man was. And then the man said, "And to think of all I did for you when we were kids. To think I once counted you among my best friends!"

And then Remus knew. Slowly, very slowly, his eyes rose to meet those of this spectre before him. He looked in those deep grey eyes and he knew. _Black? _The recognition must have shown on his face because the man burst out with a roar of laughter.

"So now you remember! What's the matter, Remus? Don't like seeing what Azkaban has done to me? What _you've _done to me!"

"What _I've_ done?"

"Yes! You!_ You _landed me there!"

And Remus forgot his fear. He forgot that he had a wand pointed at his chest wielded by a mad man. He was angry. "You landed yourself there when you_ murdered_ Peter and Lily and James!"

"Still don't have any trouble believing that do you, Remus? Is that what your hero Dumbledore told you? Honestly. The old coot lets you in to Hogwarts and suddenly you think he can do no wrong. Think he's never made a mistake, never twisted the truth to make you believe what he wanted you to believe."

"This has nothing to do with Dumbledore!" Remus shouted.

"So quick to come to the defence of your champion! Never mind the lies he's spouted."

But Remus wasn't having any of this. "I didn't need Dumbledore to tell me anything. The evidence was right there, Black. Right before my eyes! "

"Oh you have an answer for everything, don't you, Remus. Not that you've been thinking on all this, right? Not like it's kept you up at night, rehearsing your defence for what you did to me. The guilt eating at you?"

"Guilt? The only regret I have with reference to you is that I didn't see you for what you were before you had the chance to destroy so many lives. Merlin knows I should have. Merlin knows there were plenty of signs."

And then Remus's head jerked upwards as very softly above them, Remus heard the creak of a floorboard, and abruptly he realised they had been shouting_. Oh, God. Harry._

Black noticed his change of expression, noticed the direction of his eyes upon the top of the stairs. And a wicked grin passed over his face. "What's this, now?" He studied Remus then and said, "Is there someone else in the house, Remus?"

"No!" Remus said, too quickly. "There's no one here."

Black burst out laughing. "Remus, you dog! Did you go and find yourself a little wife since I've been away? And this from the man who swore he would never subject any woman to his furry little problem? Tell me, does she know about it? Of course she does. Yes, you were always much too noble, no matter how much you preferred to keep it hidden. So. Do we hear the patter of little feet? Or little paws, perhaps?" He let out another bark of laughter at his own joke. "Come now, Remus, fess up. Who is it? Anyone I know?" He made to move toward the stairwell.

"Stop this, Black, you know me! There's no one there. Do you really think I would ever have married? Let it go. We're not finished here." He followed Black across the room, stopping just feet away. Over Black's shoulder he could just make out the dark landing at the top of the stairs.

Black looked back to him. He stood not far from the base of the steps and Remus was determined to keep his back to the stairs. He prayed that Harry had had the sense to hide.

He struggled to organise his thoughts to find something to say to distract him, keep him talking. "So what? Did you escape from Azkaban? It hasn't been in the paper so you must have just done it. And you came straight here? You must have had a reason for that. I'm here. Say what you came here to say! Do what you came here to do!"

Black looked at him then, "'Do what I came here to do?' I came here to kill you, Remus." His voice was uncannily calm, conversational. " Do you have a response for that?"

And Remus found that a response to a declaration of intent to murder is a very difficult thing to answer when a boy who might as well have been a son had just peeked around the banister above them. Remus was starting to panic. He tried to convey to Harry not to try to help, to just run, to hide. But how could he do that without alerting Black to his presence at the top of the stairs.

He looked back to Black who had raised his eyebrows at him, waiting with mock patience for a clever retort.

"This is what you do with your freedom, then? Seeking revenge against me? For what? For not running to your defence after you murdered three of the only people I ever loved?"

"WHAT I WANT IS REVENGE FOR BELIEVING IT IN THE FIRST PLACE!" Black shouted. "HOW COULD YOU BELIEVE THAT? HOW COULD YOU JUST LEAVE ME TO ROT IN AZKABAN WITHOUT EVEN QUESTIONING MY INNOCENCE? QUESTIONING MY RIGHT TO A TRIAL? YOU THINK YOU WERE THE ONLY ONE WHO LOVED LILY AND JAMES? YOU THINK YOU WERE THE ONLY ONE WHO WAS CRUSHED WHEN THEY DIED?

"THERE WERE WITNESSES, BLACK!" Remus roared. "HOW DARE YOU EVEN TRY TO DENY THIS NOW!" _God, damn it, Harry. What are you doing? Run!_

"ENOUGH!" Black bellowed. He was breathing fast and there was a hard glint in his eyes. Remus saw him tighten his grip on the wand. "I'm done with this. You 've had more than your fair share of second chances. Better to just be done with you now." He raised the wand, opened his mouth to utter a curse.

And that was the moment Harry acted. Remus had to admit it was an impressive show of agility. In one fluid motion, he had flung himself over the banister and leapt down to tackle Black from behind.

"Harry, NO!" Remus shouted, but it was too late, of course. Harry clung to Black's neck with one arm and pummelled him with the other. Black let out a roar like an angry chimera. Remus hurled himself forward, making a grab for the Black's wand hand. He was trying to pry Black's fingers off the wand when Black made a sudden turn and Harry's flailing legs caught Remus is the stomach. He was thrown back to hit an armchair where he gasped out, completely winded.

He attempted to stumble to his feet but doubled up, gasping for breath. At that moment, Black pitched forward, plunging Harry over his head and across the hall. Harry met with the foot of the stairs with a sickening crunch.

Remus's heart stopped. He stared across the room, unable to move, unable to think. He did not seem to be alone; Black was staring in much the same attitude, an expression of shock on his sunken face, leaning against the woodwork and breathing hard. Harry was lying completely and terrifyingly still. As Remus watched, a trickle of dark red blood sneaked out from under his messy black hair. That woke Remus up.

Not even bothering to take the time to rise to his feet, Remus scrambled over to Harry on all fours. Reaching the boy, Remus stretched out a hand, slow with trepidation, and very softly laid it over the boy's ribs. His hand rose and fell evenly; yes, he was breathing. Gently, oh so very gently, Remus gripped the narrow shoulders and slowly rolled Harry over onto his back, carefully positioning himself so Harry's head would be pillowed on his lap. Harry groaned and bright green eyes fluttered open, lashes caressing frighteningly pale cheeks. Remus's hand hovered unsure over the wound along Harry's hairline.

"Harry?" Remus breathed, his hand reflexively reaching up to brush the black fringe out of those green eyes as they met his own. An unspoken message seemed to be contained in those eyes.

Harry's gaze shifted, and what he saw caused him to struggle to sit up. Remus supported him gently, and the boy leaned back against his chest heavily, clearly still dazed and breathing deep and quick through clenched teeth. Only once Harry was comfortably situated did Remus follow Harry's gaze and only then did Remus's fogged brain recall the presence of Sirius Black. Remus's arms reflexively tightened around Harry, one hand reaching up to cup the boy's cheek, pressing Harry's face into his chest as if that could shelter him.

From where they sat on the floor, firmly entwined, Remus and Harry gazed up at Black, waiting for him to make his next move. For what could Remus do? Here he was, sitting on his backside on the wood floor, wandless, an injured child in his arms and a mad man holding the only wand in the room.

Black looked down on them, or rather he looked down at Harry. His expression was so different from when he had looked at Remus. Remus could read shock there; shock and a deep, unbearable sadness.

"James?" Black whispered softly. Remus swallowed wondering if it would do more harm or good to correct him. But it proved unnecessary, for Black went on to correct himself. "No. Not James. James is dead. Saw him, didn't I? And her. Saw her too." He was shaking his head, never taking his eyes off Harry, though it was not to Harry that he seemed to be speaking.

"Little James," he continued, studying every aspect of Harry's face with apparent wonder. "So little. Baby James. Baby." And the sadness was back. "Told her I could watch the baby. Told her she could trust me to babysit. 'You go out,' I said. 'I won't hurt the baby.'" He crouched down directly in front of Harry and Remus's grip tightened still further. "But I did, didn't I?" And here he reached out a hand and, while Harry shrank back against Remus and every muscle in Remus's body tensed to pounce if Black did anything to hurt the boy, Black gently touched Harry's head just above the hairline. When he removed his hand, Black stared at the glistening red blood on his fingertips, rubbing finger and thumb together, watching as the blood dried on his hand with fascination. "I hurt the baby," he whispered.

After a moment's silence in which Black contemplated the blood on his hand, the focus of his gaze shifted back to Harry. And pain and self-loathing marked his face. "See how she looks at me," he whispered through clenched teeth. His hand came up again, but this time he rested the tips of his fingers at the outer corner of Harry's eye. "So reproachful, so angry. Angel's eyes should not be so vengeful." His voice had dropped so low, Remus could barely make out the words.

"STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!" Black's mood changed quick enough to give one whiplash. Now he was positively dripping with anger, leaning forward into Harry's face and spraying them with spittle. Harry buried his face in Remus's chest and Remus could feel the boy trembling. Remus was shaking too but he was quite sure it was no longer out of fear. Now it was out of anger. He had to put a stop to this. Black had no right to subject Harry to this madness. This had nothing to do with Harry. But what could he do? How did you act against such an unpredictable opponent?

Black had risen to his feet and was pacing furiously now, gesticulating with the wand and talking to someone Remus couldn't see.

"I did this for her, doesn't she see that? Her and James. And me. That's why I'm here! I'm here for the plan. The plan." He whipped around to look directly into Remus's eyes for the first time since before the scuffle. It was as though he had only just remembered that Remus was there.

And now he studied Remus. He looked deep within his eyes as Remus sat on the floor, still clutching Harry to his chest. And Remus glared back. It was a look of such vehement hatred as he had never given anyone in his life. And now he sat there, sending its full force at his childhood friend.

Black, however, seemed immune to the look. But he studied Remus and too many emotions warred in his face for Remus to read them all. He saw fury, oh Merlin, yes. But there was also confusion, indecision, and something else. Supplication?

"This wasn't part of the plan," he told Remus, his voice almost begging him to understand. "He wasn't supposed to be here. Wasn't part of the plan." Suddenly he let out a great sob of anguish and buried his face in his hands, crouching down on the floor a few feet away.

_Now,_ thought Remus_. Do it now. Get his wand and…_But before Remus could think any further, Black was up again, pacing swiftly around the room.

"The plan. It was so simple. Dead. One. Two. Three. Dead. All dead. Simple.

"YOU!" He whirled around and pointed directly at Remus with the wand. Remus, who had been in the process of manoeuvring himself and Harry into a position from which he could more easily mobilise himself should the opportunity for action present itself, froze. "You were supposed to be one," Black continued. "Number one, and already the plan's falling to pieces.

Black turned away and Remus could hear him muttering to himself, "Little pieces. Sooo many little pieces. One, two, three. One, two, three. Then me. Then I'll be free. Free to die like the rest. One. Two. Three. And then Four. Four's the most important of all."

Black withdrew into a muttering mess. His back was turned for the time being and Remus was determined to take advantage of this. He needed to get Harry out; he didn't want him anywhere near this unpredictable madman. He shifted Harry until they were kneeling facing each other, but Harry was still gazing at Black with wide eyes.

"Harry," Remus breathed, quietly enough that Black would not be able to hear across the room.

Harry glanced at Remus briefly before returning his attention to Black. "Who is he?" Harry asked. "What does he want with us?"

Remus glanced at Black too. He was still occupied with his mumbling. This was not, he decided, the time to go into that complicated history with Harry. "I don't know Harry, but I need you to listen to me." When Harry still seemed incapable of tearing his eyes from the mumbling man across the room, Remus reached up and gently turned Harry's chin until all the boy's attention was on himself. Harry's expression was still dazed from his blow to the head. That could complicate things.

"Can you walk?" Remus asked, looking deep into Harry's eyes to ascertain his condition.

Harry looked down as though taking inventory of his body. "I think so."

"Good," said Remus, speaking fast and soft. How much time did they have before Black remembered them and turned back? "Now, Harry, I need you to do something. This is very important." He glanced at Black again. "I'm going to go over there and distract him. Talk to him. Get the wand if I can—"

"He'll kill you!" Harry interrupted, too loud.

"Shhhh." Remus looked over to see if Black had heard, but he was now rocking back and forth in time to his muttered, "One, two, three. One, two, three."

"It'll be alright," he assured Harry barely audibly. But he knew it wouldn't be alright. Black would kill him. But he could still get Harry out. "Now listen. Once I have him distracted, you creep over to the fireplace. You know where I keep the floo powder—in that wooden box over the mantle."

Remus watched gravely as comprehension dawned on Harry's face. "I'm not leaving you!" Harry said fiercely. His hand came up and gripped the front of Remus's dressing gown.

"Harry, I need you to do this for me. Floo to Hogwarts. Tell Dumbledore what's happened. He'll send help." Dumbledore would send help, but it would be too late. Remus knew it, and Dumbledore would know it even as he did it. But Harry didn't need to know it. "I need you to do this for me," Remus repeated, willing Harry with every fibre of his being to let it go.

Remus barely breathed as for what felt like an eternity, they sat there looking into each other's eyes. At long last, a single tear trickled down Harry's cheek, and he nodded. Remus sighed in relief, having expected more argument. Unable to restrain himself, even if he'd wanted to, Remus cupped Harry's face between both hands and not-so-gently pressed his lips against the boy's forehead before pulling him into a tight embrace. This was partly because he couldn't bear to go to his death without this hug and partly because he feared that if Harry had the chance to look into his eyes, the boy would see the truth written there.

And so he whispered in the boy's ear, "Don't move until you're sure I have him distracted," and then he rose in one fluid motion, releasing Harry and marching determinedly over to Black without even a final glance in Harry's direction.

Remus cautiously circled around Black, carefully positioning himself so that when Black faced him, his back would be to Harry and the fireplace. Black took no notice of him, still busy as he was pacing and muttering madly.

"Black," Remus said to draw his attention. There was no response. "Black!" No response. "Bla—" A thought occurred to him. "Sirius?" Black froze and his mutterings came to an abrupt halt, but still he did not look Remus's way. "_Sirius?_" Remus tried again, keeping his voice calm with some effort. Slowly, Black looked at him and, for a moment, just a moment, Remus saw in him the boy he had played with as a child, the boy with whom he had teamed up to prank the school, the boy who had stayed by his side the whole night Remus's mother had died when he was seventeen, the boy he had once counted among his dearest and most loyal friends. It had been a long time since Remus had allowed himself to remember that boy.

"What happened to us, Remus?" The voice was hollow and hopeless. It echoed the question Remus so wanted to ask himself. A question he didn't have an answer to.

Black's gaze drifted to the window, looking out across the moon-lit Sussex hills. He was now completely and eerily still.

Remus was silent for a moment, trying to think what best to say. Before he could organise his thoughts, however, Black spoke again.

"I was supposed to be his guardian, you know." Remus forced down his anger at the very thought of the man responsible for Lily and James's death raising their child.

"I know," Remus replied. It was the most he could calmly say.

Black's head whipped toward him. "It wasn't supposed to be you," he said, sounding much like a petulant child. "They never trusted you. They thought _you _were the spy!"

Indignation reared in Remus's chest. But over Black's shoulder, Harry was teetering to his feet. He took a deep breath through his nose, his teeth grinding together. "_If_ they believed such a thing, it was because you made them. Covering your tracks, I suppose? Were you planning on framing me for everything?"

Remus must have said something very funny, because at those words, Sirius burst in to loud choruses of manic laughter. He was soon doubled over, gasping for breath. Remus couldn't have that. He had to keep Black's attention on him. Behind him, Harry was inching along the wall toward the hearth.

"Look at me," Remus said, breathing hard. "_Look at me!_" he half shouted when Black continued to laugh. And Black did, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. Remus was shaking with anger, but he forced it back and said in a voice of determined calm, "Whatever is happening here tonight, it's about you and me. This has nothing to do with Harry. Leave him out of it."

Black looked at him contemplatively. "I hadn't thought so either. But perhaps it should be. Perhaps it's everything to do with him..."

"Bla—Sirius… Please." He looked Black in the eye, imploring whatever remaining shred of humanity was still in him. "Please. Just let me send the boy back to school."

But this seemed to be the wrong thing to say. "Back to Dumbledore, you mean?" Black roared. "Back to your deliverer? How far have you allowed the old coot to corrupt him thus far? I bet Dumbledore loves having the saviour of the wizarding world under his thumb. No, I won't be sending the boy back to Dumbledore. He can stay right where he is." He made to turn back to where he thought Harry was still seated on the floor.

"Listen to me!" Remus called out before he could. He had to keep is attention, damn it. Harry was almost there. Just a few more feet and he'd be within reach of the floo powder. "Whatever bone, you have to pick, pick it with me. It's the result of events from before Harry can even remember."

"Oh yes? And what stories have you told him about what happened in this time before his memory? What lies have you filled his head with? Have you told him I'm a traitor? A spy? Maybe it's my turn. Maybe I should have the opportunity to tell him my version. Maybe I should teach him the true meaning of the word 'traitor.'

What little blood remained drained from Remus's face. "Sirius. You came here for me, so kill me if that's what you want! But _please_. Not in front of the boy. He doesn't need to see that. Please. I'm begging you. Send the boy back to school. Then you can do whatever you want to me."

"I'm sorry, Remus, old friend. That plan really doesn't suit me. STAY WHERE YOU ARE!" Not having moved, Remus was taken aback, confused by this outburst, until he realised Black was not speaking to him. Black whipped around, wand pointed directly at Harry who had frozen just inches from the fire, arm stretched out toward the box of floo powder on the mantel.

Seeing the wand pointed at Harry, Remus began to panic. "Sirius. Stop," he demanded, breathing hard and fast. "You don't have to do this!"

Sirius smiled, showing rotten teeth. "When it's so obviously shaking you up? I think I do."

Remus was going to pieces. "Would you just stop pointing that wand at my boy!" he shouted, panic gripping his heart. Vaguely, he was aware of Harry's head snapping over to him at those last words.

"Get over there." Sirius flicked his wand over to the sofa. "Both of you!" With the wand still pointed at Harry's chest, Remus could hardly do anything but obey.

Remus looked over to Harry who met his gaze with wide frightened eyes. Simultaneously, they made their way slowly to the sofa. The moment he was in reach, Remus reached out an arm and pulled Harry against his chest. He looked back to Black, awaiting his next move. Harry's fingers were digging into his arm.

"Down on the couch," he said, taking his wand away from Harry just long enough to make a downwards gesture before it was once again pointed directly at the boy. Both of them sank onto the couch to sit straight-backed on the very edge. Black began pacing back and forth before them, never taking neither eyes nor wand from Harry's face.

"This wasn't part of the plan," Black said, his tone clipped. "None of this. But never mind. Circumstances change. One just has to adapt. Have to work with what you've got. And if something else comes by that's more important… Sometimes you have to make sacrifices."

"You! Up!" he barked at Harry. Remus tightened his grip on the boy, not letting him move.

"Sirius. Don't do this. You don't have to hurt him. This is between you and m—"

"BOY! UP!" Harry was shaking, but he looked at the wand pointed at his chest, then glared defiantly back at Black, staying where he was.

Black let out a growl of frustration. "Fine then." And he shifted the wand to point directly between Remus's eyes. He looked unwaveringly at Harry and continued, "Get over here, or I blast a hole through his brain."

Remus felt Harry tense. "Harry, don't—" Remus began, but the boy had shrugged Remus's arm off and rose, moving stiffly over to where Black stood before them.

The moment he was within reach, Black's hand shot up, grabbed the boy around the arm, spun him to face Remus and pulled him back against his own body. Remus stood up, but Black shouted, "Stay where you are!" and pointed his wand at Harry's throat, Remus raised his hands slowly in supplication, trying to calm him down. Sirius barked a laugh and growled, "You noble fools are always so easy to manipulate, you know that?"

"Well, Remus, old friend," he continued. "It's been fun. Sad that we had that little falling out the past thirteen years. I'd say stay in touch, but what with you being dead, I don't think that will be possible."

Remus met his eyes, resigned to his own fate, but Harry. Dear God, Harry. "Sirius. Sirius, please."

But Black had moved his wand to point at Remus, and Harry was struggling in his grasp and distantly, Remus was aware that the boy was shouting. And the last thing he saw was a flash of light. And the last thing he heard was Harry's scream of "REMUS!" And abruptly it all cut off as the world dissolved about him.


	20. 19 Trains, Floo, and Apparition

**Chapter 19  
Trains, Floo, and Apparition  
**

**Harry's screams **rang out across the house. His abused brain made everything seem blurred and slow. He struggled against the vice-like grip around his chest as Remus crumpled to the floor. And then he felt the world twisting and dissolving about him. He felt the familiar compression of Apparition, his eyes and ears feeling the pressure and even his screams seemed to be forced back down his throat. His screams sounded distorted as though they were under water, and then, just as abruptly, it all stopped and his cry of "REMUS!" echoed deafeningly through a vast and empty cavern. His voice cut off abruptly, but the echo seemed to haunt him as it reverberated into the depths of darkness.

He stumbled trying to ascertain what had just happened. The vice that had been crushing his chest loosened and seemed to move away. Without its support, Harry swayed. Shock filled his brain, making everything move and look and sound as if they were in a grotto at the bottom of the ocean. He simply stood there, staring at the cavern wall fighting back a wave of nausea. Remus. Had he just…? Where was he? What had just happened? His breath was coming in sharp, shaky bursts, resonating in the stillness of the cave.

He heard rustling behind him then a crackling sound and abruptly the cavern filled with a flickering light. Harry turned, slowly. That man was crouched on the stone floor over a fire, his back to Harry. He stood and looked back to study Harry. Harry met his eye. He knew he should be feeling something about this man, but the fuzziness in his brain wouldn't let him remember what it was.

The man looked Harry over, eyes raking over his whole body. "You'd best come sit by the fire. You must be freezing." He nodded at Harry's feet. Harry followed his eyes and studied his bare toes. He had the strangest feeling that they were not in fact his own. He wiggled them and they responded to his command. Strange.

The man—what had Remus called him? Serious?—had turned away and begun muttering what sounded like an incantation. "_Salvio Hexia… Protego Totalum… Repello Muggletum… Muffliato… Cave Inimicum…_" He was slowly circling the cavern with his hands raised in the air, wand drawing complex patterns in the air. A wand. Remus's wand. Remus…

"You killed him."

The words were quiet but clear. Harry barely knew that the words came from his own mouth, but he was suddenly filled with a kind of deadly calm as they sank into his very bones. The man, Serious or whatever his name was, turned to look at Harry. "You killed Remus," Harry reiterated, every syllable enunciated distinctly. His voice was calm. No grief, no rage, no doubt. Just calm. Expressionless.

The man simply looked at him, his face unreadable. Then, "He deserved death."

And that was all the confirmation Harry needed. Suddenly a rage such as he had never known gripped his heart. Never had he truly wished someone pain. Never had he wished someone death. Never had he wanted to hear someone scream as the life was crushed out of him.

Until now.

He felt his body shaking. He felt his magic flooding him whirling through his chest like a tornado. And then his body was not the only thing shaking. He felt more than saw the entire cavern trembling. Small rocks were clattering against the floor. The man—the murderer—saw, however. Harry was vaguely aware of the shock that registered across his face as his eyes travelled through the cavern. Then his eyes came back to meet Harry's and the rage peaked. Harry reached for his magic, to let it flood down to his fingertips, fill his brain. He would kill this man. And so he reached for his magic.

But what he found instead was nausea. A nausea beyond anything else he had ever felt. He choked, clawing at his head where a sharp pain seemed to pierce through his brain. Then, before he even had time to register what was happening, his body doubled over and he was spilling the contents of his stomach over the cave floor.

When the violent retching had stopped, he braced his hands on his knees and sucked the air in through his mouth desperately. Tears streamed from his eyes as dizziness washed over him. His head felt light and disconnected. A strong but gentle hand came to rest on his shoulder and Harry relaxed into it, let it ground him. Another hand came up to feel his forehead. _Remus_, he thought, revelling in the cool hand against his feverish skin. But then a voice that was not Remus's penetrated his fogged brain.

"What's this? Are you sick, boy?"

And Harry's brain caught up with all that had happened. Harry jerked away from the man who was now crouched beside him, and reflexively, he put all his weight behind his elbow as he crashed it into the other man's nose. He was just scrambling to his feet, whether to fight or flee, he was not sure, when a hand streaked across his vision and backhanded him across the face.

Everything seemed to slow. He felt a pain in his knees and was vaguely aware he had fallen to the stone ground. A ringing was sounding in his ears as he swayed. His vision blurred at the edges and soon everything was falling into blackness.

* * *

**Sirius stood** frozen in the light of the crackling fire. His arm was still raised and blood dripping from his nose. The boy—_Harry_, he reminded himself—was lying still on the ground, clearly unconscious. _I put him there_. He had to tell himself that, remind himself. He needed to be reminded. He couldn't be allowed to forget this. It needed to be a lesion. A reminder of what happened when he forgot who he was, where he was, and most importantly, who he was with.

Harry. His godson. The boy lay perfectly still on the floor of the cave where he had fallen after Sirius had hit him. Damn it, how could he have done that? He'd _hit_ Harry. _Harry_, for Merlin's sake. Very slowly he lowered his hand. How could he do something like that? _To Harry_. The boy had elbowed him in the nose and Sirius had just reacted without a second thought, slapping him across the face. He hadn't really hit him that hard, but with the blow to the head Harry had received before…

He remembered now. He remembered the baby as he had once been. The smiling green eyes and messy shock of black hair. The pudgy arms which had so often wrapped themselves around Sirius's neck. Harry had adored Sirius. And Sirius Harry. But it had all been so long ago.

And now he looked at the boy before him—really looked. Until this moment, things had been moving too fast, and he had been too shocked at Harry's presence to really take the time to look at him. But now he did so. Now, it seemed, time was standing still. Time was non-existent.

Sirius crouched down before the boy. Hesitantly he pushed the hair back out of his face. The boy did look remarkably like James, especially now that his eyes were closed. But he seemed so small. How old was he now? Sirius tried to do the maths in his head, but it confused him. What year was it now? When was Harry born, again? He'd be what? Fourteen? Fifteen? So why was he so…scrawny?

His eyes racked over the boy's body. He was wearing nothing but a pair of flannel pyjamas and a t-shirt. That was a complication. Everything was so blasted complicated. He hadn't thought this through at all. He had seen the boy, and all he had thought was that he needed him to be near. He couldn't let this boy go back to Hogwarts where Peter was. Where Dumbledore was. Harry was his. He wasn't about to let anyone else take him from him again. But now…He had nothing to offer the boy. No clothes, no food, no shelter. What was he doing?

_Damn it! _How could he have forgotten Harry? He had loved this boy like his own son, and yet Azkaban had erased him from his memory as efficiently as a Memory Charm. In going to Remus's house, it had not occurred to him that he might find Harry there. It was the logical place for him of course—Remus was the last of Lily and James's old friends—but Sirius had to wonder how Remus had gotten around the werewolf restrictions.

Sirius was filled with jealousy. Remus had gotten to watch Harry grow up—heard him read his first book, watched him ride his first broomstick, seen him off on the Hogwarts Express his first year of school. He, Sirius, was supposed to be there during all those things. There were so many firsts that Sirius would never get to experience with Harry. The injustice was near unbearable.

But he was here now, and Sirius would just have to make his second chance count.

Starting with coming up with a plan.

* * *

**"When did this** happen?" Dumbledore's voice was calm, but internally, his mind was racing. _Why now? After all these years? What is he after?_ He sat behind his desk, his deep blue dressing gown pulled around him.

Fudge was pacing agitatedly back and forth in Dumbledore's office. "Some time Saturday night or in the early hours of yesterday morning. The Azkaban guards didn't notice he was missing until they brought in his meal in the morning. We're all completely flummoxed as to how he managed it," Fudge said for the umpteenth time. "Confounded."

"Why am I only just hearing of this?" Dumbledore he was angry, but he strove not to show it. And what Dumbledore strove for he usually achieved. His tone was light as he continued, "Surely an announcement should have been made. The public needs to be warned."

Fudge looked suddenly uncomfortable. "I have just sent a statement to the _Daily Prophet._ The announcement will be in the morning's paper." He swallowed. "We had _hoped _that it might not be necessary…that we might find him before this could all cause any…embarrassment… To Azkaban, I mean." _'To yourself,' you mean,_Dumbledore corrected internally.

"And the Muggles? You intend to inform the Muggle Prime Minister, I hope?"

Fudge did not quite meet his eyes. "I hardly think that is necessary just yet…but if we don't find Black soon…"

"Any Muggle who comes across Black is at risk. They need to be warned," said Dumbledore sternly. "And in any case, all the more eyes on the lookout. You never know who might see something to help us find him."

"In any event," Dumbledore continued. The Muggle community was not his greatest concern at the moment. They'd work on that later. "What has been done to recover him?"

"He must have swam ashore. We traced him as far as the Stonehaven rail station. There were only two trains which left at a time that Black might have had access to. One was northbound, heading toward Aberdeen. The other southbound toward Dundee and Edinburgh. I stationed Aurors at every station where either stopped, but he must have given them the slip somehow. If he made it to Edinburgh, he would have been able to catch a train to just about anywhere. But we think it more likely he headed north…"

"Why is that?" Dumbledore interrupted.

Fudge licked his lips. "We have reason to believe, he might be headed here."

"Reason?" Dumbledore said sharply.

Hesitantly, Fudge pulled a worn and crinkled newspaper from his pocket and handed it to Dumbledore. A cursory glance told Dumbledore it was dated some three months previous. The leading headline did not read anything particularly remarkable. Just a short piece about the Weasley family winning some gold in a drawing.

"We found it in Black's cell," Fudge said. Dumbledore glanced at him before turning the folded paper over to see the second half of the front page and froze, staring hard at the article which had undoubtedly caught the attention of whomever had found it in Black's cell. The paper was creased where it had clearly been crumpled in anger, there were holes where fingernails had pierced through the pages. Dumbledore's eyes flew back and forth across the page as he skimmed the article.

**HARRY POTTER ADJUSTS TO LIFE AT HOGWARTS  
Hogwarts Students Share Impressions of a New Classmate  
By Rita Skeeter**

Barely a month ago, the wizarding community was shocked  
at the unexpected return of the long-lost Boy Who Lived.  
Harry Potter was named a ward of Albus Dumbledore,  
Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,  
and he has since been catching up in his studies at the afore-  
mentioned school.

Albus Dumbledore has been very protective of his young  
charge, fervently denying any interviews with Potter while  
the boy "adjusts to a new and confusing way of life." While  
highly coveted, information regarding the boy's circumstances  
has been scarce. Until now. This _Daily Prophe_t correspondent  
has recently achieved interviews with several Hogwarts  
students who have become close to Harry Potter in the week  
since the new school term began.

Romilda Vane, a stunningly beautiful third year at Hogwarts,  
says she and Potter instantly connected and have become fast  
friends and "possibly even more."

"Well, no one can accuse me of not respecting people's  
privacy," Vane told the _Daily Prophet._ "But I will just say that I  
make sure that Harry's never lonely. We do everything  
together. We're completely inseparable." She went on to say  
that her relationship with Potter was fast developing into  
something quite different. "Harry's a true romantic, if you  
know what I mean."

Romance isn't the only thing Harry Potter has found at  
Hogwarts. He's also made a number of what Zachariah Smith  
terms, "life-long friends." Smith informed the _Daily Prophet_  
that Potter's arrival was met with **CONTINUES 'POTTER' A4**

Dumbledore did not need to continue to A4. He had read the long, drawn-out article back in January and remembered it to be filled with the usual nonsense. But that was not the point. The contents of the article was not the point. It was its mere presence. Sirius Black knew that Harry was alive. And he knew where to find him.

"How did he get this?" Dumbledore asked, still eyeing the paper.

"Why does it matter?" Fudge burst out. He had begun to sweat profusely.

"Well," replied Dumbledore, "For one thing…Depending on who gave it to him, it could indicate that Black had inside help in escaping."

"I can one hundred per cent guarantee that the paper was not given to him with any such intent. If he did have inside help, it was not in any way related to the newspaper," Fudge asserted, stubbornly. Dumbledore eyed Fudge, and Fudge thrust his chin in the air and attempted to meet the gaze with an expression that might have resembled competence were it not for the trembling. _Oh, for Merlin's sake, Fudge gave it to him himself, didn't he? _Dumbledore sighed internally but let the subject drop.

"The point is, Black lost everything when Potter defeated You-Know-Who," Fudge continued, telling Dumbledore things he already knew. "It's likely he'll want revenge. Possibly even think that with Potter he can bring You-Know-Who back!" _And the frightening thing is, he probably could,_ thought Dumbledore. But he did not share these thoughts with Fudge.

"We have to protect the boy, Dumbledore. We have to protect all the students. When word of this gets out, the parents are going to riot."

"Naturally," replied Dumbledore, his thoughts only marginally on this conversation. "Precautions will have to be taken."

Fudge breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm glad you agree. I've ordered the Azkaban guards to set up a perimeter around the castle. There will be a pair guarding every entrance to the grounds at all ti—"

"Dementors?" Dumbledore ground out. "At Hogwarts?" Something in his tone made Fudge seem to shrink.

"Come now, Dumbledore. I know you're not exactly fond of them, but you must see that this is necessary. I've got to be seen doing _something_! The parents are going to want to know that their children are safe here."

"I will not have them anywhere near this castle, Cornelius. The last thing my students need is those foul creatures polluting their very souls."

"It's for their _protection_, Dumbledore!"

"I can and will protect this castle and everyone in it without resorting to Dark creatures, Cornelius," Dumbledore said firmly. Honestly. Dementors in a school? Where did the man come up with such nonsense?

"Fine," Fudge snapped. "Then I'll just send all the angry parents your way, shall I?"

"Do that," Dumbledore challenged. And at that, they were at an impasse. They merely stared at each other, unblinking, Fudge's teeth grinding and Dumbledore's expression blank but eyes hard.

When it was clear that Dumbledore was not about to waver, Fudge said, "I'll need to see the boy."

"Whoever do you mean?" This conversation was fast becoming tedious.

"Don't play dumb with me, Dumbledore," Fudge said impatiently. "Potter! I _intend _to see him, Dumbledore!"

"I hardly see why that should be necessary," replied Dumbledore calmly, but still his eyes were still hard. Not yet! Not while Harry was still in Sussex at any rate.

"Don't give me that, Dumbledore. You've had quite enough time. He needs to know what is happening, and_ I_ need to know exactly what he knows about Black."

"Don't be ridiculous, Cornelius; he knows absolutely nothing about Black. Why should he?" The _nerve!_Using this as an excuse to get close to Harry, so he could start interrogating the lad!

"Well, I can't possibly know that until I speak to him!" Fudge half-yelled.

There was silence for a moment as the two wizards stared at each other, neither wont to backing down. This conversation was about a great deal more than simply Black and Harry.

"Station your Dementors, Cornelius," Dumbledore conceded at last. "But only outside the gates. I won't have then on the grounds." Fudge seemed surprised at this concession, which was exactly what Dumbledore was hoping for. _It's worth it,_ he thought. _Give him this much if it'll distract him from Harry._ "Now, I'm sure, in light of all this commotion you have much to do. I'm afraid, I'm busy too. Good day, Cornelius."

And before Fudge had time to realise he was being dismissed, Dumbledore had hustled the Minister of Magic to the fire, and thrown a pinch of Floo Powder in for him.

After Fudge's departure, Dumbledore glanced out the window where the first faint blush of dawn touched the sky. Remus would not be up yet. But he had to warn him. They needed to get Harry back to Hogwarts. Back where Dumbledore could keep an eye on him.

And so it was that he stepped into the fire not thirty seconds after Fudge.

.

The minute Dumbledore stepped out of the fire at Remus's cottage, he knew that something was wrong. It was just too quite. He glanced around the sitting room. Usually the position of everything in Remus's house spoke of practicality and convenience almost to the point of obsessive tidiness. But now things were ever-so-slightly amiss. He saw the curtains on the window to his right were tangled and half torn from their hangings. One of the armchairs by the fire had been pushed into an awkward position directly in front of the fire. Dumbledore had to navigate around it as he stepped out of the hearth. As he did so, he heard the crunching of glass below his feet and realised a photograph had shattered on the ground where it had fallen from an end table. If this was not evidence enough, once he was around the chair, he saw something that made his heart stop.

Dumbledore ignited his wand tip. Sure enough, a figure was stretched out on the floor next to the divan on the opposite wall. Mustering calm, Dumbledore made his way swiftly over to the fallen body.

"Remus," Dumbledore said firmly. Resolutely, Dumbledore grasped his colleague by the shoulders and turned him onto his back. Bracing himself for whatever the outcome, he reached a hand out to feel the pulse at his neck. In throbbed evenly under his fingertips. He breathed a sigh of relief. Carefully, he raised one eyelid to examine the younger man's eyes. His pupil contracted in response to the light of his wand. Stunned.

"_Ennervate_," Dumbledore said softly, glancing about the room to make sure they were alone. He was confident they were, but it didn't hurt to check. He turned back at a muffled groan. Remus's gold-brown eyes were blinking open. He made to sit up, but Dumbledore placed a firm hand on his chest.

"Lie still for a bit, my boy. You've been stunned."

Remus rose a hand to massage his temple. "Wha—Wha'appened?" He licked chapped lips.

"I rather hoped you'd be able to tell me that."

Remus blinked a few times and a furrow appeared between his brows. "Black." His eyes widened. He struggled to sit up, a fist going to grasp at the robes over Dumbledore's chest as he did so. "Sirius Black! He was here. He…" Remus looked up to a point somewhere over Dumbledore's right shoulder as he strove to sort through a tangle of confused memories. "He came up behind me, and he had my wand, and…"

"Remus," Dumbledore interrupted the disjointed ramblings. "Where's Harry?" He looked Remus sincerely in the eye and saw as his worst fears were confirmed.

"Oh, my God." Remus's voice was barely more than a whisper. Then he was up. He stumbled at the foot of the stairs but he caught himself on the wall and kept moving. Dumbledore followed, but he knew it was pointless.

"Remus," Dumbledore called after him, but Remus paid him no mind as he scrambled up the stairs. At the top, he fell into the first door, hand fumbling for the knob. He stumbled when the door at last swung open. It revealed only a small empty bedroom. The bed clothes were still mussed as though someone had only just left it.

Dumbledore stood behind him as Remus shook his head in denial. Then he turned and shoved past Dumbledore to pull open the bathroom door. It too was empty. "Remus," Dumbledore said again, firmly. They were wasting time.

"Maybe…" Remus made to move toward the next door, but Dumbledore had had enough. He caught Remus by the arm and forced him to look at him.

"Remus. He's not here."

Remus was breathing hard and at those words he finally broke loose with a strangled sob. He sank to the floor at Dumbledore's feet, and Dumbledore heard him moaning, "Oh, God, he's taken him. What have I done? What am I going to do?"

Dumbledore knelt down so he was on eyelevel with his distraught friend. Remus grasped the front of Dumbledore's robes like a drowning man. Urgency was making the words tumble out of his mouth faster that Dumbledore had ever heard them come from Remus. "Albus. We have to do something! We have to find them! We have to get him back! We—"

"Remus," Dumbledore interrupted again. He had to be firm. This was important. "Hold yourself together. Look at me."

Remus looked straight at Dumbledore then, eyes wide and trusting. Sure that with one word Dumbledore would be able to solve everything. Dumbledore hated to disappoint, but this situation was not that simple.

"Remus. I need you to tell me everything."

* * *

**A/N:** Hope you all had a happy Christmas or whichever holidays you might celebrate! I know this chapter's a little on the short side, but I'd figured you guys would appreciate a slightly faster update after the uproar I received from last chapter's cliff hanger. I have to admit I was rather sadistically amused at the reaction. I've never gotten such a strange mix of positive and negative responses, sometimes within the same review; not often do I get the words "I hate you" and the words "You are a genius" in the same review. For the very few of you who actually believed I had just killed off Remus, I apologise for upsetting you. I hope this chapter lets you breathe a_ little_ easier. Also, I know a lot of people were asking why Harry didn't just wandlessly blast Sirius, and if you're still confused, I promise I'll explain it a little more next chapter, so patience.

On an unrelated note, I feel like my summary for this story is not very…representative. I'm not sure that it's compelling enough to actually get people to bother to click it. So. A challenge to anyone interested: Write me a summary that is under 255 characters and send it to me either in a PM or a Review, and if I think it more fitting than the one I have there, I'll replace it with yours. Special, short little sneak peak of the next chapter to all participants!

Thanks for reading, as always, and please review!

Baguette


	21. 20 Unproductive Conversations

**Chapter 20  
Unproductive Conversations**

**A large, black **dog was dragging a heavy blanket up a steep incline with his teeth. A grove of trees blocked him from view of the town below, but just to be sure, he pulled into a little hallow formed by a collection of rocks which, not so long ago, must have crashed down, scoring the mountain face.

In this hallow, there was already a small trove of discarded treasures awaiting him: a couple of damp newspapers; a pair of thick, musty-smelling wool socks; a sweater stained with something the dog did not care to speculate on; and an old, canvas rucksack filled with a loaf of stale bread, a handful of apples, carrots, and turnips, a head of cabbage that had seen better days, a dented tin cup, and a couple of pasties nicked from a kiosk in the rail station.

Manoeuvring around a particularly large and inconveniently placed boulder, the dog cursed internally. He never appreciated the dexterity offered by opposable thumbs until he spent some time in dog-form. But now that he was under cover of the rocks, he could change back; then he'd be able to carry more things at once and save himself from the tediousness of multiple trips back-and-forth.

Taking one last glance around to make sure that no one was watching, the dog shifted. Sirius Black took its place, crouching in the little hollow. He looked around, surveying his spoils. It wasn't much, but it would have to do for now. The enchanted sleep he had cast over Harry would be wearing off soon. He stuffed as much as he could into the rucksack to make it all easier to carry, and, slinging the blanket over one shoulder and the bag over the other, he made his way up the mountain side, carefully meandering around rocks and brambles.

When he reached the mouth of the cave, he looked around again; he couldn't afford to lead anyone here. When he saw no one, he ducked around a rock and disappeared into the darkness. The cave was well hidden, a fissure extending downward from the rocky incline leading into the cavern, a low-ceiling forcing him to duck his head as he moved deeper into the darkness.

The fire had burned low in his absence, but the coals were still hot. It cast a faint orangish glow a few feet around, but beyond that, the lighting was dim at best. He could only just make out Harry where he had left him next to the fire. Sirius made his way over to the glowing embers, slowly so as not to trip. Once there, he dropped the blanket and satchel on the ground and knelt to stoke the fire with a muttered "Incendio!"

He turned to study the boy. Perhaps it was just the flickering light, but his chapped lips appeared to have a bluish tint to them. He reached out a hand and felt the boy's soft cheek and withdrew it sharply. It was cold as death. Were it not for the steady rise and fall of his chest, Sirius would have thought him lost. He hurried to the blanket and, supporting the boy's weight against his shoulder, he wrapped Harry tightly in a cocoon of rough, heavy wool. Then he dug his hands into the rucksack to find the socks and pulled them onto the boy's icy feet. He stood back.

He was ringing his hands, eyes zipping back and forth over the boy's body, trying to think what else he could do. Sirius moved back a few more paces and sat on the floor, watching Harry sleep and picking at his lip. Perhaps he shouldn't have let the boy sleep. He thought he might have heard somewhere that you shouldn't let someone with a concussion sleep—_Why was that again?_—and the boy had taken two blows to the head scarcely a quarter of an hour apart.

_All because of you_, said a small voice which sounded frighteningly like James_. You wanted the responsibility of caring for him. You wanted to protect him. So what is he doing unconscious on the floor? Is this what you wanted?_

"Shut up," Sirius said feebly back to the voice in his head_. "_That's not how it happened. It was an accident. I would never hurt Harry!"

_Who cares about your motivation? It's meaningless! It happened! It happened and you can't take it back. The mere fact that such accidents are happening prove that you're in no position to care for the boy._

Sirius was gritting his teeth. "That's not true."

_Oh? So what are you going to do with him? How are you going to give him a life while on the run?_

"We'll leave the country. Start a new life in America or Australia or…somewhere. Somewhere no one will look for us."

_And how are you going to get to America or Australia or Somewhere? I'd be surprised if the boy can even walk. _ Think,_ Sirius! You need a plan! You can't just lumber your way through this. You have another life depending on you now. You can't go around making impulsive decisions any more._

"What would you have me do?" Sirius was getting angry. "Leave him to be manipulated by Dumbledore? Let him obliviously wander around Hogwarts while Peter is hiding in wait to kill him? I _can _give him a life and I _will_. It's not that complicated. This place is safe enough. We'll lie low here while the boy recovers and then make our way south. Portsmouth, maybe. There we'll be able to sneak onto a Muggle cargo ship headed out of the country. This will work." He muttered this speech around his hand as he continued to pick at his lips, thinking hard.

_And when Remus comes after you? He'll have alerted Dumbledore by now. The whole of the wizarding world will be looking for you. You just kidnapped the Boy Who Lived! They'll be out for your blood. If you had just killed Remus, it might have bought you some time. You should have killed him when you had the chance._

"I couldn't," said Sirius disconsolately.

_Why? It was reckless keeping him alive. You should never have strayed from the plan. You should have killed him!_

"I just couldn't. I thought I'd be able to, but then I got there and…I dunno. I just…remembered. Remembered all of the good times we'd had together. And Harry was there, and…I just couldn't. Please. Just leave it alone." A treacherous prickle had begun to sting his eyes, but he refused to acknowledge it.

_Well, it's on your own head. There's no way you're getting out of the country with that boy. They'll find you. You should have killed Remus. Why didn't you kill Remus? You might as well have just killed Harry while you were at it—_

"NO!" Pebbles skidded across the floor as Sirius rose violently to his feet. "I'm done with this. Unless you have something useful to say, go away."

The voice ignored him. _He's going to die anyway. An injured child? How are you going to feed him, keep him warm, care for him?_

"Go. Away." The words were quite but succinct, each syllable enunciated clearly.

_You have nothing to offer him. You might as well have—_

"GO AWAY!" The words rang out louder than he'd expected. They echoed in the depths of the cave. And then there was silence. Blissful, unadulterated silence.

Until a faint groan broke the stillness.

* * *

**Dumbledore was **talking but Nymphadora Tonks's eyes were on another. About twenty people were in the room, some seated at the table, others standing wherever they had found the space. All were focused on Dumbledore save two: Tonks and the object of her attention.

The man was sitting in the far corner of the room. His head was in his hands, just as he had been when Tonks had first walked into the room an hour ago. He had not moved once in that time—she would know, seeing as she had barely taken her eyes off him for more than a second. She had not gotten a close look at his face, buried as it was in his hands. Most all she could see were thick locks of light brown hair, streaked with grey. But he fascinated her. And so she stared.

Beside her, Kingsley glanced at her, followed her eyes toward the pitiful figure and then looked back, raising his eyebrows at her. She ignored him, continuing to watch the man in the corner. Kingsley shook his head half exasperated and half amused before turning his attention back to Dumbledore. Never minding that her back was rudely and blatantly to the headmaster throughout his entire speech, Tonks continued to watch.

"He was taken from a cottage on the southern coast of Sussex," Dumbledore was saying. As he did so, Tonks saw the fingers of the man across the room flex, biting into his skin. "We believe Black Apparated the boy away, around three o'clock early this morning. We do not, as yet, know where Black is headed or what his motives are."

The man across the room had begun shaking. She wondered who he was. She wondered what he had lost. Everything in his bearing screamed of raw emotion such as she had never seen. He loved this boy, Harry Potter.

Harry Potter. It was still so strange. She had grown up believing that the Boy Who Lived was dead; there had always been a sense of irony associated with his title. The boy's death had been general knowledge. Just goes to show how reliable general knowledge is, she supposed. _General Knowledge, Sir! You really need to find yourself a brain. _It was odd, somehow, to think of the hero of the wizarding world alive—Well…alive as of three a.m. this morning… Who could say beyond that. Somehow a dead hero held a different sort of place in her mind than a live one. She didn't know why. But somehow, when he was dead he wasn't quite…real. But finding out he was alive…It was like he suddenly became a person. A living, breathing, kid who was probably just as lost and confused as every other fourteen-year-old, adolescent boy. And now he was out there, who knows where, enduring who knows what. Unless he was dead, of course. But that thought made her sad, largely because she could see that thought was already torturing the man across the room.

Mad-Eye was asking a question, but Tonks was distracted. The man had just shifted ever so slightly and she caught sight of a pair of thin lips. They were nice lips. Kind. Even tense and chapped as they were from worry and grief and surrounded by the shadow of unshaven chin.

"Yes," Dumbledore replied to Moody. "It is confirmed that Black has acquired a wand." Several people shifted. Most remembered well that Black had attained his fame for murdering thirteen people with a single curse. It had been before Tonks was old enough to remember much, but she had read the case file when Black escaped from Azkaban and it had been appalling enough.

She remembered once speaking of Black with her mother when she was a child. She had asked her mother why she had never met any of her extended family. Andromeda Tonks was not a woman to beat around the Flutterby. She explained the differing values her family expressed and that it had all come to a head when she had married Tonks's father, resulting in Andromeda severing all ties with them. Andromeda was a woman of fierce morals, and she had raised her daughter to stand up for what was right, no matter the cost; it was one of the reasons Tonks had decided to be an Auror.

Her family was clearly a touchy subject for her mother, but Andromeda had told Tonks that they were well shot of the lot of them. That most all of the family had supported Voldemort during the war, and, with one exception, it hadn't surprised Andromeda one bit. The exception was Sirius Black.

Sirius was Andromeda's cousin, and he had suffered much the same persecution by the family as Andromeda; they had always shared a certain kinship for that. Consequently, when Sirius was revealed to have joined Voldemort, it had shocked Andromeda. How could someone lie so effectively? How could he fool so many people who were close to him for so long? But Sirius was a Black. And years of having such ideals crammed down one's throat was bound to take its toll.

Abruptly, there was movement around her. Tonks blinked, turning away from the man on the far side of the room for the first time in several minutes and looked around. The room was suddenly a flurry of activity as chairs were pushed back and people were rising to their feet. Several witches and wizards were forming groups, heads bent low, talking fast to each other as they made plans.

"Tonks, you're with me," Mad-Eye barked. She turned quickly to look at him.

"With you where?" Tonks replied blankly.

Mad-Eye rolled his good eye. "You really weren't listening to a single word were you? When I suggested to Kingsley that he bring you along, it was so that you could make yourself useful, not so that you could bat your eyelashes at men like an overgrown schoolgirl." Kingsley snorted softly. Tonks felt her face redden.

"We're to start canvasing in Sussex. Try to find someone who's seen something useful. I hope you have some Muggle clothes." At Tonks's nod, he continued. "I have to talk to Dumbledore. Don't go anywhere. We're leaving as soon as I can get my hands on some pictures of the boy to show the Muggles."

Mad-Eye limped up to the front of the room where a gaggle of people were already gathering around to speak to Dumbledore personally. He'd be a while. Her eyes drifted back to the man in the corner.

He had moved at last, but not much. He was now leaning back in his chair, his eyes fixed upon the ceiling. She could finally see his face properly. He was perhaps in his late thirties; the hair was already greying at his temples and creases lined his face. But there was something in his eyes that was deeply companionate. It was a good face, she thought. Good but sad. Terribly, heartbreakingly sad.

Kingsley nudged her shoulder. "Where is your head, Tonks?" he sighed.

She glanced at him. She could ask him. He might tease her a bit, but he wouldn't judge. "Who is he," she nodded at the stranger. Kingsley followed her nod and suddenly he looked sad too.

"Remus Lupin," he said, simply.

"He's so…_miserable_…" she said, more to herself than to Kingsley.

Kingsley studied her for a moment before replying. "He was the one who was in charge of the Potter boy when…when he was taken." Tonks winced. She couldn't imagine the guilt the poor blighter must be feeling.

But Kingsley wasn't done. "Remus was a good friend of Lily and James Potter. And Peter Pettigrew, the wizard Black murdered. He's seen a lot of sorrow, Remus has."

At that moment Emmeline Vance approached Kingsley, engaging him in a discussion on how to conduct a thorough search of London. Tonks tuned them out. Remus Lupin was still staring at the ceiling. The people around him milled about in groups, the buzz of urgent conversation surrounding him, but he sat alone, taking note of no one. It was one of the most wretched sights she had ever seen.

She glanced back at Moody. He was now deep in conversation with Dumbledore and Elphias Doge. She had time. She wasn't sure what it was about this man—why she so desperately wanted to help him, why it seemed so important—but it did. And so she made her way determinedly across the room and plunked herself down in the chair next to him. Remus Lupin did not seem to notice.

She cleared her throat, suddenly nervous, though she did not know why. "Wotcher," she said to get his attention. Very slowly, the eyes which had been fixed on the ceiling lowered and looked at her. Their power was shocking. They were a golden-brown colour, and their expression reminded her of some wild animal, facing a hunter's barrel with sorrow and resignation.

"I'm Tonks."

He blinked a few times and seemed to wake up slightly. He held out his hand and replied automatically, "Remus." Then he turned away again. Tonks was quite sure that he had already forgotten her. He hadn't even heard her name.

"I'm sorry," she said. "For…everything." It sounded stupid. It wasn't enough. She wished she knew what to say. What could possibly make him feel better after such a loss? It appeared, however, that it was enough to recapture his attention, at least momentarily.

He looked at her, a crease appearing between his brows. "I beg your pardon?"

"I just…I can see you're hurting. More than anyone, I think. And I just wanted to say that…that we're going to do everything we can to get him back. Wherever he is, we'll find him." She said it firmly, exhibiting a confidence she wasn't sure she really felt. But she had to feel it. It had to be true. She needed to believe that that look of sorrow on Remus Lupin's face could be cured. She needed to see that that boy made it back to this man who so clearly loved him. And she needed to see that the boy made it back alive.

Remus Lupin was looking at her now. Really looking. His lips were parted and the crease between his eyebrows had deepened. She met his gaze, trying to exude confidence and assurance. She didn't know how long they sat there, staring into each other's eyes, not moving, not speaking. She saw him pull in a breath preparing to reply at last, but at that moment a voice broke the connection.

"Remus." Remus's head whipped around as he looked to the owner of the voice. He looked disoriented. Tonks blinked several times as Dumbledore strolled up, Moody limping behind him. She felt strangely light-headed.

Dumbledore pulled a chair around so that it was facing Remus's and sat down, leaning forward to meet Remus's eyes. "How are you feeling?"

"Useless," said Remus in hollow voice. "What am I doing here, Albus? I should be out there, looking for him."

"You will, Remus. You will. But right now, I need you here. Let's try again. I need you to think. Where would he have taken him?"

Remus was on his feet before Tonks could even register that he had moved. He was pacing fiercely back and forth along the wall. "I told you. I don't. Know. What do you want from me? Don't you think I would have told you if I knew?"

"_Think_, Remus," Dumbledore said sternly. It upset Tonks for some reason. She was becoming protective of this man she barely knew. Why couldn't Dumbledore just leave him alone? Couldn't he see how he was hurting him? "Think. _For Harry_. Did Black ever mention somewhere? Some secret place he used to go? Somewhere he'd feel safe? Where would he take him, Remus?"

Remus was shaking his head, muttering over and over, growing increasingly agitated, "I don't know I don't know I don't know."

"_Try._ No one knows Black better than you!"

Abruptly, the pacing stopped. Remus stood there, staring at nothing, his muttering silenced. Then he took a deep, shuttering breath and finally looked at Dumbledore. His words sounded collected and purposeful when he at last spoke. "I think, Headmaster…that if recent events tell us anything…it's that I really didn't know Black at all."

And then he fell into the chair and buried his face in his hands, elbows propped on his knees, resuming the attitude he had held when Tonks had first entered the room. This time, however, his shoulders shook with silent sobs.

Dumbledore leaned forward in his chair and rested a comforting hand on the younger man's shoulder. Both had forgotten Tonks was there. She sat there, her eyes wide and dismayed, watching as this strong man, shamelessly cried.

"It's time to go, Tonks," a soft, gruff voice said in her ear. She looked up to see Moody standing over her, leaning heavily on his walking stick. His scarred face was grave. She glanced once more toward Remus Lupin before rising to her feet. She nodded and sniffed.

"Here. Keep a hold of these. And _don't lose them_." He was holding out a small stack of photographs. She took them slowly, and then Moody turned and limped toward the door. She followed, flipping through the photos in her hand as she walked.

The first was the photo from Sirius Black's Azkaban record, a photo which had become familiar as it had been hung on posters and claimed a space on the front page of that morning's newspaper. The second was another of Black, but this one was older as evidenced by the fact that it was in black and white. Black looked youthful and carefree, his hair cut short and a smile that shown through his eyes. The third was a photo of a teenage boy with messy black hair and green eyes. Harry. He was crouched in the grass on a frosted hillside that overlooked what appeared to be chalky cliffs and a stormy ocean. He was looking out to sea and the wind rustled his hair and clothing. The apposition was beautiful but with a sad undertone. She flipped to the last picture and froze.

She had reached the door now. She stood there and stared at the photograph in her hand. Moody was way ahead, already heading down the marble staircase, but she couldn't seem to move. She looked back over her shoulder at the stranger across the room. His head was out of his hands now, at least, but the sadness, if anything, had deepened. Dumbledore was talking softly to him, but he merely sat there, occasionally shaking his head, his shoulders hunched. She looked back at the photo.

It pictured the same boy as the one previous, but in this picture, he was not alone. An older man stood next to him, his arm around the boy's shoulders. They both wore hats, the kind one would get out of a cracker—was it Christmas?—and they were laughing. Both looked so happy, so carefree. She glanced again at Remus Lupin where he was sitting across the room. She would barely recognise him as the same man who had once smiled and laughed on a Christmas day.

As she watched him, Remus glanced her way and their eyes met. Just for a moment. But a moment that seemed to last an eternity. She felt a tear slide down one cheek. They had to find the boy. They had to.

She looked again at the photograph. She would see Remus Lupin laugh like this again one day. She _would_. And with that resolution, she turned and followed Moody down the stairs into the Entrance Hall.

* * *

**Snape watched** from the corner as the room at last began to clear. Groups of people were hurrying off to begin their completely pointless search. Snape could not supress a sneer. These people. So eager to run about just so they could feel like they were doing something. It was futile. They wouldn't find the boy. Black was too clever. They would be well hidden by now. Possibly not even in the country. Besides. If Lupin was to be believed, Black was completely mad. There was no predicting a mad man. So why were they trying?

Then again, Snape wasn't so sure Lupin was to be believed. Oh, the show of grief and loss was flawless, to be sure. But Snape remembered what no one else seemed to. Black and Lupin had been best friends. Why did no one else seem to find all this suspicious? Black breaks out of Azkaban and then just magically knows exactly where to find Potter? It was complete and utter bollocks. Everyone here was just leaving Lupin to himself, casting him those infuriatingly pitying looks. Why did no one else seem to notice that Lupin's story just didn't ring true? No, they'd rather ignore that which was inconvenient and just carry on their wholly worthless scouring of the entire country.

No, a blind canvas of all of the country would yield nothing. They needed to approach this with...a more creative eye. And that was why he waited here.

He knew Dumbledore would want to speak with him. Knew what the headmaster would ask. And he knew what his answer would be. He didn't want to do it. It was going to be dangerous and miserable and would probably result in more than a few insults to his pride. But he would do it. He had to. He had sworn. And it was for Lily.

As he watched the occupants of the room in their pursuits of purposelessness, he saw Lupin rise to his feet from where he had been sitting talking to Dumbledore. Snape saw him glaring at Dumbledore as the werewolf's lips moved in what Snape could only assume to be ungrateful words. Then he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room. Dumbledore watched him go with a sad expression on his face.

Gradually the room became more and more empty. Always, Dumbledore was engaged in conversation with some bumbler or another. But Snape could be patient. He stood in the corner and waited.

At last, Hestia Jones and Dedalus Diggle bustled from the room, whispering excitedly to each other. And finally, silence fell.

When the sounds of their voices drifted away down the marble staircase, Dumbledore finally turned and looked at Snape, his expression unreadable. After a moment's silence, he said, "Shall we retire to my office?" What he meant was, 'Shall we go somewhere we won't be overheard, because I'm about to ask you to do something off-the-books?'

Snape nodded silently and pushed off the wall he was leaning against. The two wizards made their way out of the second-floor conference room, heading toward the staircase that would lead up to the seventh floor and Dumbledore's office. No words were exchanged for some time.

As they reached the seventh floor corridor, just when Snape was preparing himself to break the silence, a voice rang out down the hall.

"Professor Dumbledore!" The headmaster and Snape turned. Snape felt his lip curl involuntarily.

The man running toward them was tall and thin. His flaming red hair was balding, his glasses were askew, and his green robes were worn and frayed. He was rather out of breath by the time he caught them up.

"Arthur Weasley, I believe," said Dumbledore as the man caught his breath. Snape's intuitions were confirmed. A Weasley was always easy to spot. Still, this one seemed rather surprised that Dumbledore had remembered his name.

"Y—Yes, sir." He appeared to be clutching a stitch in his side and was breathing hard. "Forgive me."

"Not at all, dear fellow. Not at all. What can I do for you?"

"Well, sir… It's just that… I wanted to tell you…" Snape couldn't help but let out an irritated sigh and roll his eyes. Weasley caught sight of his expression and seemed momentarily distracted by it, but it did at least have its desired effect.

"I work at the Ministry, Professor, and I heard. About Harry Potter, I mean," he at last said, more coherently. "The Minister has all Ministry employees on the lookout, but I have concerns…that is to say… I don't always trust that Fudge's intentions are…" He trailed off again, and Snape raised an eyebrow at him. Why couldn't the man just spit out what he came here to say and let them get on with more important matters.

Arthur Weasley took a deep breath, licked his lips, and tried again. "Professor. I don't know Harry. Not personally, at any rate. But he's important. And I don't mean…you know…the usual… I just mean…he's important to my children—over the past few months, their letters home have scarcely been about anything else. And that makes him important to me. And I just wanted to let you know that if there's anything…extra…that I can do…any way that I can help… Molly—my wife—and I are very anxious for the boy. We just wanted to assure you that if there's anything we can do to help bring him home safe, we're at your disposal."

Dumbledore was regarding Arthur Weasley contemplatively throughout this little speech. After a moment's silence in which Weasley shuffled his feet and Dumbledore merely looked at him, Dumbledore at last took in a breath and said, "Thank you, Arthur. I appreciate that. Merlin knows we can use all the help we can get. If you are sincere in your desire to help, I suggest you contact Kingsley Shacklebolt."

"The Auror?" Weasley asked, frowning. This news clearly shocked him.

"Yes. Kingsely is leading a search through London on my behest and I'm quite certain he could use some extra man power."

Weasley was nodding, his mouth slightly agape. "Yes…Yes, I'll do that. Thank you, Professor Dumbledore."

"Now if you'll excuse us," Dumbledore said. "I'm afraid we have some important matters to attend to."

"Of course. By all means. Thank you, Professor. I'll go see Shacklebolt now." Weasley rushed away in the direction of the stairs, Dumbledore and Snape watching him go.

"Did it occur to you that he might be a spy from Fudge?" Snape asked when Weasley was out of earshot. Of course it had occurred to Dumbledore, but he had to check.

"No, I don't think so," replied Dumbledore, staring in the direction that Arthur had disappeared. "I don't doubt that Cornelius may indeed attempt something of the sort, but I highly doubt Arthur Weasley would be his first choice. And in any event, I believe Arthur was quite sincere in his concern for the boy."

He turned and continued on the path to the gargoyle guarding his office. Snape followed.

"You think it wise," Snape voiced another thought that had been concerning him, "informing the Ministry of Potter's disappearance?"

"Wise or not, I had no choice in the matter," Dumbledore replied. "Cornelius was insisting on seeing the boy, and he was not to be easily gainsaid." Dumbledore was contemplative. "Cornelius is becoming very possessive of the power he enjoys at the Ministry. I fear it may become a problem.

"At any rate," Dumbledore continued, snapping back to the current matter at hand, "We cannot have too many eyes on the lookout. The Ministry does have some resources. It's possible they will be able to find Harry where we fail."

"Unlikely," said Snape sceptically. "But if they do? Could not that pose a whole new set of problems? Do you think the Ministry would willingly forfeit the boy back to your custody after this? After you left him in the care of a werewolf who happens to be the best friend of a convicted mass murderer?" He could not quite keep the accusation out of his tone.

Dumbledore did not respond immediately. "Fudge Flies," he told the stone gargoyle as they approached it. Then he said to Snape, "We have to focus on the problem at hand. We will deal with new problems as they arise."

They stepped onto the moving staircase and, as it carried them up to Dumbledore's office, Snape could not help but think of why Dumbledore did not think it essential to consider the possibility that the Ministry might get their hands on the boy. Because it was quite probable that that outcome was moot. Quite probable that, even if Potter were found, he would not likely be in a state worth fighting over.

They were silent as they climbed the staircase, but when they reached the office and the door was firmly shut behind them, Snape had to voice what he had been feeling since he had first heard the news of the Potter's abduction.

"You don't actually believe the boy is still alive." It was not really a question, but he wanted Dumbledore to answer it. He wanted the man to admit that it was all useless. But Dumbledore didn't answer him. He merely crossed over to his desk and sat down, seeming older than Snape had ever seen him. Snape went on.

"Black would have no reason to keep Potter alive. None. From his point of view, Potter is the reason for his downfall. The reason the Dark Lord was vanquished. The reason Black was thrown in Azkaban. He took the boy out of revenge.

"Even if Black hasn't killed Potter yet, it seems to me the boy would be better off dead. By now, Black could have performed any number of unspeakable tortures. The Dark Lord was very creative in those respects and if the rumours are to be believed, he taught Black all he knows."

Still Dumbledore did not answer him. He merely sat at his desk, contemplating his entwined fingers. Snape glared at him, stubbornly awaiting an answer.

After some time, Dumbledore looked up at him, sorrow evident in his eyes and said, "All I know, Severus…is that the last time I assumed Harry to be dead, I later regretted it immensely."

Snape had no response to that. It was a mistake many of them had made and a mistake for which they all shared in the guilt. Snape crossed over to the desk and seated himself opposite Dumbledore. They were silent, both lost in their miserable thoughts.

After some time, Dumbledore said, "I think you know what I must ask you to do?" It was not really a question, but Snape nodded bleakly. Dumbledore had pity in his eyes and Snape did not care to see it. He straightened his back, raised his chin and met Dumbledore's eye defiantly. A slight smile curved Dumbledore's lips, and he gave a nod of his own.

"Start with Lucius Malfoy. He has connections and power and was high in Voldemort's ranks. And in any case, he's already shown an interest in Harry. He may know something."

Snape nodded again, saying nothing. It was going to be difficult, convincing his old comrades that he had not turned against the Dark Lord. But he had to try. For Lily. This was his best chance to find out something about Black or the boy. He began going through a list of names in his head. Former Death Eaters whom he still had access to and who may know something of use. _Mafoy, Macnair, Yaxley, Jugson, Nott, Rowle …  
_  
"There is one other matter I'd like you to enquire about, if the opportunity arises," Dumbledore continued. Snape halted his internal list and looked at him, curious now.

Dumbledore opened a drawer in his desk and removed a file. He placed it on the desk and slid it in Snape's direction. It was a simple folder with a photograph clipped to the outside coupled with a name. Snape picked it up, glancing at the photo.

"Marcus Gibbon?" he asked. _What was this about?_Gibbon was no one of particular importance. And hadn't he died some years ago? Snape thought he remembered hearing something about that…What was it…some mundane accident or other.

"You know him?" Dumbledore asked.

"Not particularly," Snape replied, flipping aimlessly through the file. Ah yes, there it was. He died almost four years ago, now. After a fall from a broomstick. "He was a Death Eater, but not of any high rank. Just a grunt man, really. Flew under the radar when the Aurors were gathering up Death Eaters after the Dark Lord fell. What is it you want to know about him?"

"I'm interested in his death," Dumbledore replied. "The official report…it doesn't ring true. I hoped you might be able to look into what really happened."

Snape frowned. "You don't think he had a fall?"

"Oh, I think he had a fall, all right," replied Dumbledore. "I just don't think it was from a broomstick.

"The report from the scene where his body was discovered indicates that he had fallen on his back in a field on his estate in Hampshire. But the coroner's report mentions shards of glass and asphalt embedded in his back and contusions indicating a blow to the chest antemortem. I'd like to know why that evidence was ignored."

"Why the sudden interest in a man who died four years ago?"

"It is precisely because he died four years ago that he interests me," Dumbledore responded. Snape was missing something.

Dumbledore surveyed him for a moment before continuing. "Harry told Remus about an incident four years ago when he was attacked by Death Eaters. During this incident, Harry admitted that he may have caused a man to fall to his death. I'm simply trying to ascertain whether Gibbon is that man."

"Does it matter if he is? What difference could it possibly make now?" Snape asked as he found the mentioned coroner's report and extracted it from the file.

"It makes very little difference to you or me," Dumbledore admitted. "But it could make a very great difference to Harry. It could provide him with some closure, some peace of mind. Not knowing exactly what happened that night is perhaps worse than simply knowing, even if what happened was not desirable. We cannot underestimate the importance of closure."

Snape looked up from the report he had been reading and met Dumbledore's eye. He was quiet for a moment, fairly certain that that comment was not intended merely in regards to Potter. He could have mentioned that closure was of no use if the boy was already dead, but he did not.

"What would you have me do?"

Dumbledore smiled at him with something that resembled pride. "We have reason to believe that Malfoy was leading this attack on Harry four years ago. See if you can't slip Gibbon's name into the conversation. In conjunction with Harry's. I don't have to tell you to keep it subtle. And then just watch. Malfoy might reveal something.

Snape sighed internally. "I'll do what I can," he said. Then, rising to his feet, he added, "I should go. The sooner we find the boy, the better." Dumbledore was right. They had to assume he was alive. They couldn't go about making the same mistake as last time, no matter what logic and reason had to say about it.

He made to move toward the door, but Dumbledore called him back.

"Severus. Be careful. Do nothing that will put yourself at risk. You're far more valuable alive."

Snape had nothing to say to that. He met Dumbledore's eyes for a moment and then turned on his heel, sweeping out of the room with his robes billowing behind him. He would do this. He would find the boy. But not for Dumbledore's sake. Not for Harry' Potter's sake. Not even for Severus Snape's sake. No. He would find him for Lily. Because it was all he had left to offer her. How else could he ever hope to find closure? He would do this.

Yes. Severus Snape's value was about to be tested.

* * *

**He tried to **swallow back the bile, but his mouth was too dry. He still felt it burning his throat, his oesophagus. His mouth was sticky. With some effort, he licked his chapped lips but it made little difference. His body was wracked with strange sensations of hot and cold. There seemed to be a fierce and burning heat radiating from his left, but his other side was frozen. He could barely feel his toes and fingers; his exposed nose was like ice. He tried to open his eyes but they were glued together with some kind of crusty gunk. He let out another groan. At least he thought the sound came from his throat. He couldn't be sure.

He blinked his eyes, trying to dispel the crusty stickiness. He could see little. Everything was blurred. A flickering light seemed to accompany the heat coming from his left along with a crackling sound. To his right was blackness. Such a strange juxtaposition. The breath was coming deep and gasping, labouring his whole chest. He could hear the sound of each inhale, each exhale echoing in the strange half-darkness. Inhale…Exhale…Inhale…Exhale… He tried to lick his lips again. This time, he was marginally more successful.

The world above him was coming into clearer focus. He was lying on his back on a hard, uneven floor. He was fairly certain of that. Above him, barely visible by the flickering of the light, seemed to be rough stones. Such a strange place for stones. What was keeping them from crashing down, burying him and a pile of cold hardness? Strange shadows flickered over them making them dissolve and reappear, always in new shapes.

His pulse was pounding in his head as though he were trapped inside a gigantic clock. Lub dub. Lub dub. Inhale. Exhale. Everything was so loud. He needed silence. His head was aching, pounding. _Why was everything so loud?_

He tried to raise a hand to his throbbing head; his arm did not respond to his command. He began to panic, struggling to move his body. Oh, God! He was paralyzed! But he managed to lift his head a centimetre off the floor, tucking his chin down to his chest just enough to see that he was wrapped snuggly in a heavy blanket. His head swayed. He couldn't hold it long and soon he felt it fall back. As it made forceful contact with the stone ground, he vaguely thought that surely that must have hurt. But he couldn't seem to feel much of anything properly.

How did he get here? Where was here? He tried to remember. Everything was a blur. A blur of emotions and screams and darkness.

He didn't know what made him turn his head, be it sound or movement or just plain intuition. But suddenly he knew he wasn't alone. Knew there was someone else there, watching him. He let gravity do most the work and his head fell to the side until he was facing the flickering light. Ah, fire. Yes. That was it. And next to the fire…

Was it a man or a child? One second he seemed to be an old man, hunched with age. The next, the fire would flicker, and he was a child huddled in fear. His knees were drawn up to his chin and gnarled hands were held to his mouth. Matted hair cast the face in shadow, but the flames reflected off a glistening pair of eyes. He could see that those eyes were looking right into his own. The man-child did not move. He merely sat there, perfectly still, watching.

Harry wanted to ask him who he was. Was he lost? Why did he look so frightened? He opened his mouth to do so, but nothing came out. He tried for a third time to lick his lips. His tongue felt dry and swollen. Harry turned his head back, looking up at the ceiling. Still his breath rang in his ears. Inhale. Exhale.

It was then that the figure moved, Harry heard rather than saw him. He heard rustling and then a muttered, "Aguamenti!" And then he felt a hand supporting his head and something metal being pressed to his lips and cool water trickling down his throat. He gulped it down gratefully.

When the flow of water stopped and the hands withdrew, his mind felt clearer.

He turned his head to the left again and saw that the man had resumed his crouch near the fire. He knew he was a man now. He was quite sure of it, for all that his attitude was rather something of a child's. There was something else too. This man had done something terrible.

"Where am I?" Harry managed to croak.

"Safe," said the man in a hoarse growl. Harry might have told the man that 'safe' was not a 'where' but he didn't have the energy for it. He tried to sit up to survey his surroundings for himself, but his head seemed to be alternating between being filled with helium and filled with lead. He couldn't support it.

"Why did you kill him?" There seemed to be a disconnect between his brain and his mouth because he wasn't quite sure who this man had killed. But he had killed someone. Someone important. Of that he was certain. And it made him sad.

"You loved him? Remus?"

Ah, yes. Remus. That was it. He turned away from the man to stare at the ceiling. He could not answer that question. 'Love?' He didn't know what the word meant. It was not an emotion he could ever remember experiencing at either end. Besides. If this man was refusing to answer Harry's questions, why should he answer his?

A prickling was stinging his eyes. He was trembling. Whether it be from cold or sorrow or rage, he could not say. Remus was dead. And there was nothing he could do. He couldn't bring him back, and now, he was even too weak to seek revenge. All he could do was talk. Carry on a conversation with the murderer of his mentor, his friend. A strangled sob escaped his lips, though Harry didn't remember it being formed.

"I can see that you did," the man whispered. There was a pause before he continued. "You loved me once. Do you remember?"

"I don't even know who you are," Harry replied blankly, still staring at the ceiling.

"Why, I'm Sirius! Sirius Black. You don't remember your godfather, Padfoot?"

Again, Harry didn't respond. He was vaguely aware that he was shaking his head. It made him dizzy, but he couldn't seem to stop. His godfather? _This_ was who his parents had chosen to be his godfather? A man who would murder their best friend and Harry's guardian? What did this say about his parents? He took a deep shuttering breath. It echoed in the blackness.

"Well, I suppose Remus told you about me, at any rate, even if you don't remember. I expect he told you that I betrayed and murdered your parents and Peter Pettigrew? That I was their best friend turned spy and Death Eater? That I was living out a life-sentence in Azkaban for my crimes and deserved worse? Sound familiar? Is that what he told you? That's what they all believe."

Murdered his parents? Their best friend? A Death Eater? None of this made sense. Remus would have told him. Remus didn't lie. This couldn't be true.

His thoughts must have shown on his face because Sirius cocked his head at him and said in a startled voice, "He didn't tell you. Did he?" He let out a bark of laughter. "Well, I suppose we shouldn't be too surprised, should we? Remus always was one for his secrets. I mean honestly? How long did he wait before he told you he was a werewolf? Your dad and I had to figure it out for ourselves, and even then we practically had to tie him down and force him to—" He broke off, studying Harry with a frown.

The breath was coming sharp and fast in Harry's chest, and he couldn't seem to slow it. He was shaking uncontrollably. What else had Remus lied about? What else had he kept from him? He had told Remus everything—well, not everything, but more than he had ever told anyone. Had Remus really not returned that confidence at all? After all those months spent in Remus's company, had he really not known the man at all?

And now he was dead. Now he never would.

"Calm down, son. There's no reason to be getting yourself this upset. Remus was like that with everyone." A hand gripped his shoulder, but Harry jerked away from it.

"I don't want to hear this. Please, just leave me alone. Please, just go." Harry was begging. Pleas bursting out between strangled gasps. Under normal circumstances he would have been ashamed of this, but at the moment there were too many emotions raging in his heart to make room for such a trifling sensation as shame.

With some difficulty, he managed to extricate his arms from the cocoon of blanket. He turned on his side, back to the fire and Sirius Black, and cradled his head in his hands, gripping his hair, his knees coming up into the foetal position.

He sensed Black hesitate. "Please. Leave me," Harry begged again. "Please."

He heard Black rise to his feet and make his way to what he assumed to be the mouth of the cave. He paused there for a moment before moving on. And then Harry broke down. Tears such as he had never felt before streaked down his face, and his whole body was wracked with sobs.

It was a pain such as he had never felt before. Had any of it been real? Sirius was right. He had loved Remus. And now he found that it had never been returned. Remus had been manipulating Harry as surely as the Ministry or Dumbledore. Harry had just been too blind to see it. Too starved for affection to face it. Could it be true? It had felt so real. But now he would never know if it had been real. Remus was dead. He was dead, and it was Harry's fault.

After a bit, the sobs slowed. He turned over onto his back and pushed his hair back out of his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. He thought back to the previous night (or had it been the previous night at all? He really had no idea how long he'd been here).

The sound of shouting had woken him. He had never heard Remus shout before; it was so incongruous with the gentle man he knew—or he thought he knew. He had crept to the top of the stairs to get a glimpse of the goings-on below, heard Sirius declare that he was going to kill Remus, seen the fear in Remus's eyes. And then Sirius had raised his wand, and Harry had acted.

It had been stupid. What he had been thinking, Harry would ever know. He had left his wand on the bedside table, and somehow after almost four months of having it drilled into him that he shouldn't be channelling magic without his wand, he had just done the only thing he could think of. He had leapt over the banister and tackled Sirius from above.

How could he have been so stupid? If he had just used magic, if he hadn't forgotten his wand, Remus would still be alive. After the blow to the head, he was pretty much useless. Everything had gone slow and fuzzy, and he couldn't fully figure out what was happening, much less even think about channelling wandless magic. It was all his fault. And now he was here, paying for it.

The tears were still flowing, but they came silently now. He lay there, perfectly still, staring up at the rocky ceiling above. He could escape. Sirius had left (Why had he done that? Why would he have left Harry unguarded?). If he could just make it to—

He heard a rustling behind him. He sat up abruptly and turned. A wave of nausea and dizziness made him sway. Well, maybe escaping wasn't in the cards for him just then. Then he heard a soft whine. He looked about for the source of the sounds, and almost laughed, lying back, hoping it would make the world stop spinning.

A large, black dog had crept into the cave. He made his way over to the fire, tail between his legs, head down, his posture submissive. The dog trotted over and lay down about a metre away, taking in the warmth of the fire. Resting his head on his paws, the dog fixed soft grey eyes on Harry.

Over his years in London, Harry had had a great deal of experience with stray animals; he was fond of them for the most part. They had filled some of the lonely gap in Harry's childhood.

"Where did you come from?" Harry asked gently. The dog's only response was to thump his tail once or twice. "Did we come and invade your home?" The dog just looked at him. "Sorry about that. Afraid you might want to be gone before that other man comes back. Not sure what he'd do with you." The dog whined once. "Not fair is it. That's life I suppose." Harry looked back to the ceiling. He rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes and nose and sniffed. The tears were drying at last.

The dog whined again, seeming to want to recapture Harry's attention. Harry looked at him. Without rising, the dog shuffled forward a pace, still keeping his chin positioned on his forepaws. "No use whinging at me. I don't have any food for you." Whine. Harry sighed. "Come here, boy." Harry held out his hand to the dog.

The dog rose to his feet and bounded over, tail wagging happily. He licked Harry's hand, eliciting a weak smile from Harry, before turning a few circles and curling up at Harry's side. Harry petted the soft head a few times, then scratched his ears. This provoked a contented repeated thumping of his rear leg.

After a bit, Harry lay there next to the dog, appreciating the warm body beside him, even if he was filthy and pungent. The dog nuzzled his hand until he opened it and then proceeded to lick his palm. It was soothing. Harry's eyes drifted closed, and he allowed himself to forget the nightmare that was his life for just a moment. He lay there, focusing on the repeated warmth of the tongue on his palm and the feel of the steady heart beat under his other hand, buried in soft fur.

Some time later, when Harry awoke, the dog was gone, and Sirius was warming what appeared to be pasties over the fire. It seemed the dog had taken his advice to heart. It made Harry sad.

* * *

**A/N:** Just wanted to take a moment to answer a question from _Heart Mind and Soul_. It's a comment I've gotten from a few people, so I figured I'd answer it here where anyone interested could read it. It regards Harry befriending Neville in place of Ron.

First off, I just want to say that I never intended for Neville to be a replacement for Ron. I like Ron, very much (he's another of those characters that I just don't quite understand why people on hate). I thought long and hard about what Ron's place in this story would be and, yes, I too lamented that his relationship with Harry could never be quite what it was in the originals. It just didn't make sense with my plot line. When I got to thinking about it, logically, in the absence of Harry, I felt quite sure that Ron would have attached himself to Dean and Seamus. For Harry to easily befriend Ron, right from the beginning, he would have had to befriended Dean and Seamus too, and I just felt that was too much for Harry so soon after having entered such a different life where he had lost so much of the independence he was accustomed to.

That does not mean that Harry and Ron will not grow to be friends. Ron has a role in this story that I do indeed have it planned out. Will it be as great a role as it was in JKR's work? No. But I assure you, he does have a role, and it is an important one. I love the Weasleys too much to lose them in this story. They will be gradually worked more and more into the plotline, believe me.

You asked one other question that I wanted to offer my assurances regarding, such as they are. I do have the plot of this story planned out to the end. There may be some very minor changes that come up as I'm writing, but any major plot points have been intended from the very beginning. This situation with Sirius was most definitely not a new development. I'd intended it from day one. Don't believe me? Look back. I've been dropping Sirius's name since Chapter 1, trying to ensure that you didn't forget him and that you all knew that he was still believed guilty, still in Azkaban, and well…completely off his rocker. I do not believe that any major plot points should be lost in this twist, but if I reach the end of the story and have still not given you a conclusion to any of them, I encourage you to bring it to my attention.

Thank you, _Heart Mind and Soul,_for your constructive review.

In other news, for all you who speak the language, _Jujuba L_ has begun translating _A__ Lonely Path_ into Portuguese! You can find the link on my profile page.

Oh, and Happy belated birthday to my reader, _Kreature_! Thanks for reviewing. (Incidentally, you share a birthday with one of my best friends. Otherwise I might have actually been able to update on Friday. But, alas, too busy partying.)

School's picking up again...might mean slower updates again. Sorry. As always, thanks for reading and please review!


	22. 21 Nettled

**LP Chapter 21  
Nettled**

**Remus kicked** aside an ugly umbrella stand which had the disturbing appearance of a severed troll's leg. It probably was one, but he elected not to dwell on that thought. He didn't know why he'd come here. There was nothing here. He'd known that long before he'd come. But still, here he was. He didn't need to search the house. Once glance about him at the years' accumulation of undisturbed dust assured him that Black had never come here. Remus couldn't imagine why he would have. Black had hated this place since before Remus had known him. But still. It had been his childhood home, after all. And Remus was running out of other ideas of where to look. Already, he had startled an elderly couple who now resided at Black's old London flat, he'd scoured Godric's Hollow from end to end, he'd overturned every rock of their childhood haunts in the Forbidden Forest. Nothing. No, Black would not be found anywhere from his past—anywhere predictable. Even in insanity he was too smart for that. And that made Remus feel, if possible, even more useless than he had already.

Despite the fact that he knew Black was not here, Remus climbed the stairs to the first landing. He swung open the first door and stood in a mouldy smelling parlour. Remus had never been here before—the Black family would never have allowed a half-breed like himself into their midst—and yet somehow Remus felt that he could picture the child Sirius in this house. It fit in that it didn't fit at all with the boy he'd once thought he'd known. He could picture a rebellious Sirius strutting around this house, defiantly flaunting his differing ideals.

Remus thought back to the many stories he'd heard Sirius tell of his family. He had always seemed so full of loathing, so angry at the people who had raised him. Had it all been an act? Perhaps part of it had been the normal rebellious nature of teenagers, but Remus felt that couldn't have been all. Thinking back to that child, Remus could not even begin to imagine what had happened to make him change his views so drastically—to make him suddenly support the ideals he had spent seven years very vocally abhorring. Remus refused to believe that, even as they had bonded at the age of eleven, Sirius had already been planning his duplicity. So what could possibly have incited a switch to the dark arts, a switch that would result in the murder of three of his best friends? Resulted in the kidnap of his own godson.

Remus sank down on a green velvet divan and a cloud of dust erupted around him. He stared up at a large tapestry with the Black family tree on the opposite wall. Sirius's name had been burned out. Surely it couldn't have been an act. It couldn't have all been one big, elaborate rouse. It couldn't.

Remus had contemplated all this many times before, of course. But this time, it was different. This time it wasn't about the betrayal Remus felt or about Lily or James or Peter. This time it was about Harry. And something told Remus that understanding Sirius's motivation would help him save Harry. It had to.

Because he had nothing else to go on.

* * *

**Harry's head** felt marginally clearer when he opened his eyes again. He experimentally tried again to reach for his magic, but it skitted away from him leaving him queasy. Sirius Black was moving with his back to Harry, silhouetted against the light of the fire. The smell of pasties wafted over to him from where they warmed by the fire. It made Harry's mouth water. He watched as Sirius turned the pasties over and nudged them closer to the fire.

It did not take long before Sirius noticed he was awake. He simply looked at Harry and Harry looked at him. Neither seemed to quite know what to make of the other. Harry opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again. No words existed to say what he wanted to say.

"You must be hungry," Sirius said at last.

Harry ignored him. He struggled to push himself into a sitting position, violently shrugging off the hand that reached out to help him. Then he sat still, breathing deep, eyes closed, a hand to his throbbing head. He sensed rather than saw Sirius hesitating nearby. Harry looked back to him, meeting his eye. He felt more in control now that he wasn't flat on his back, even if it was making him dizzy. Sirius stood there staring at him awkwardly for a moment. Then he sprang in to action, snatching up one of the pasties from the fire and a tin cup filled with water. He held them out to Harry with an enthusiasm that splashed half the water across the floor. Harry made no move to take them. He merely sat there, looking Sirius straight in the eye.

Something in his expression seemed to make Sirius uneasy. Slowly, he set the pasty and water down near Harry and moved back. Still Harry looked at him.

"Look," said Sirius. "I get that you're…nettled at me."

"'Nettled?'" Harry said at last. "_That's_ the word you want to go with right now? '_Nettled?_'"

"You're right. You're absolutely right," Sirius cut in quickly, his hands raised in supplication. "You're angry. You have every right to be."

Harry let out a hollow laugh. "'Angry' doesn't even begin to cover it—"

"I know! I know. But that's no reason to go and starve yourself, is it? You haven't eaten in nearly two days. You must be hungry."

Harry gritted his teeth and glared at the man. He was hungry, but he wasn't about to show it. He'd been hungrier. He'd gone longer without food. He found himself thanking God for the early training of deprivation from growing up on the streets. And so he made no grab for the food. He merely sat there, staring into the man's eyes. Because he could see Sirius found it unnerving. And unnerving was about all he had the strength for just then.

"Listen." Sirius said, breaking the silence Harry could see he disliked. "I've been thinking—"

"Really?" Harry interrupted sardonically. "Didn't know you were capable of that."

Sirius grinned wide, showing a row of even, if rotting teeth. "Sound like your father. Look like him too. You know, he used to tell me when we were kids—"

"Don't!" Harry said it softly but forcefully. Whatever Sirius had been about to say died on his lips. "_Don't you_ _dare_talk about him. I don't want to hear some happy childhood story about another man you murdered."

Sirius surveyed him silently for a moment.

"Fine," he said at last. "Then why don't I tell you another story." His voice had grown hard. Anger was looming just at the edge of each word.

"What story?" said Harry sullenly.

"My story. The whole story. From my point of view. You've heard it from Remus, no doubt. Dumbledore maybe. Well, it's my turn. My turn to tell you what really happened. Who really betrayed your parents. It's time you heard the truth."

"Truth? What the hell does that even mean? I've been told a million truths in the past few months, and each one of them is different. I'm sick to death of the truth."

"Well, you're going to hear this one, whether you like it or not!" Sirius shouted. Harry jumped. Up to that point, he had been talking quite collectedly, if rather firmly. Suddenly, for the first time, Harry truly appreciated that this man was a murderer.

Sirius's eyes went wide and suddenly his face was stricken with a look of self-disgust. He raised both hands, digging them into his hair as he pressed them firmly on each side of his head. He began to rock. "Don't shout don't shout don't shout," he mumbled in time to his rocking. "You're scaring him, don't shout don't shout, STOP SHOUTING! GO AWAY!" Sirius froze, looking at nothing. Staring into the blackness of the cave as though there were something there. Something Harry couldn't see.

Harry sat, unmoving, his muscles tense, eyes wide. Abruptly he realised he wasn't breathing, and took a deep breath. Sirius too was relaxing, seeming to remember that Harry was there.

"You're mad," Harry breathed, abruptly unable to meet his eye. It was quite an unnecessary statement, of course, but he felt the need to say it out loud.

The cave erupted with what Harry could only describe as giggles. The sound did not suit the man at all.

"Ironic, isn't it?" Sirius said, still snickering. His hand had begun a fast, repeated tapping of his lower lip. "The say I was mad. They say that's why I did what they say I did. And so they locked me away and mad I became." He let out another giggle followed by a few more disconnected _tee hee_'s and silence.

Harry was quiet for a bit. He watched the man before him. He had begun picking at his lips, his arms wrapped around his frail body. And quite without his intention, quite without his permission, Harry found that he pitied this man. Hated him, yes. But pitied him also. _They say that's why I did what they say I did._Harry considered those words, attempting to discern their meaning.

"Tell me." Harry wasn't aware of deciding to say those words, but suddenly they were floating in the air of the cave, palpable.

Sirius stopped picking at his lip and slowly raised his eyes to meet Harry's. He stared at him for a moment, then looked down at the floor, seemingly searching for a point to begin.

"I've made so many mistakes in my life. But not the ones I've been accused of." He didn't meet Harry's eye. Was he too thinking about Remus? "I've done terrible things. Hurt so many people." Finally he looked up and met Harry's gaze. His eyes were wide, begging for understanding. "You most of all, I think. But I never_ meant _to hurt you. You have to believe me. You were the last person in the world I ever wanted to hurt."

He paused here, seeming to wait for a response from Harry. Harry said nothing. He merely looked into the grey eyes before him, face determinedly stern. After a while, Sirius gave up waiting and continued.

"I suppose I should start with when we were at school. James—you're father—and I were fast friends. Me and James, and Remus and one other boy, Peter Pettigrew. The four of us were as close as four friends ever were. And nothing changed when we left school. We were all there when your dad married your mum and when you were born. We spent Christmas together. We were pretty much inseparable. But by this time Voldemort was coming into his power. And then it all started. The murders. The disappearances. It was a dark time." He took a breath, collecting his thoughts.

"After we finished school, the five of us—Remus, Peter, your mum and dad and me—we all went to work for the Order of the Phoenix."

"The what?" Harry asked. Despite himself, he was interested in this story.

"The Oder of the Phoenix," Sirius repeated. "It was a secret organisation, founded by Dumbledore to aid in the fight against Voldemort. Not long after that, you were born." Sirius looked at Harry then, his eyes brimming with tears. "They loved you so much, you know. Your mum and dad." He sniffed and scrubbed at his face with the back of a filthy hand.

"Then things started to go downhill. The war wasn't going well. Voldemort was gaining a firmer and firmer hold. Every day we heard more and more stories about deaths, tortures, abductions. Brothers were turning on brothers, neighbours, friends. No one knew who to trust. And Voldemort was showing an uncanny interest in your family. Shortly after you were born, Dumbledore received word that you and your parents were marked for death.

"Your mum and dad decided to go into hiding. They were determined to protect you, you see. There's a charm, the Fidelius Charm, you know it? It involves concealing a secret within a living person's soul. This secret is then protected—no one can find out what it is—unless this person, the Secret Keeper, chooses to divulge it. Your dad asked me to be your family's Secret Keeper. To hide your family's whereabouts from Voldemort and anyone else who might do them harm.

"But it was complicated. I was already convinced that there was a spy within the Order. Every move we made, the Death Eaters seemed to be ready for us. And Voldemort always seemed to know Lily and James's movements. Truth be told, I thought it was Remus who was leaking the information. I made a choice.

"You see, I was James's best friend. Everyone would assume that James would ask me to be the Secret Keeper. But Peter. Peter was such a weak, unnoticeable sort of person. No one would have thought that Lily and James would ask him. So we switched. Without telling anyone. I convinced Lily and James to use Peter as the Secret Keeper instead."

Harry thought he knew where this was going. He had to remind himself that this man was mad. That he was a liar. A murderer. He was so caught up in the story, he almost forgot. But this man had killed Remus. He saw that with his own two eyes. No amount of sad, misunderstood tales of the past could change that.

"You have to understand." Sirius continued. "I was trying to protect them. I was trying to protect _you_. I thought that that if Peter and I switched places, everyone would come after me, thinking I was the Secret Keeper, leaving Peter to go into hiding—Do what he does best: go about unnoticed.

"But what I didn't account for, was that he had gone unnoticed by me too. By all of us. _He_ was the spy. _He_ was the one selling the Order's secrets to Voldemort and the Death Eaters. _He _was the double-crosser. And so Peter ran off to Voldemort the first chance he got and just handed him your location. And well…I expect you know the rest of that story.

"I went to check on Peter that night. His hiding place was empty, and I just knew something was wrong. I went straight to your mum and dad's, but it was too late. By the time I got there..." he sniffed again. Harry had to admit, he was very convincing. "They were already dead, and Hagrid was there to take you away. And so I went after Peter.

"He wasn't hard to track. Peter was never exactly the brightest of the bunch and stealth was certainly not one of his talents. I cornered him in a Muggle street. I admit. I intended to kill him that day. But then he yelled for the whole street that _I_was the one who betrayed Lily and James. And then he faked his own death, blew up half the street, killing twelve Muggles and framing me for it. Then he transformed into a rat and scurried down into the sewers."

"He what?" said Harry, abruptly completely unimpressed. "He 'transformed into a what?'" His voice was positively dripping with scepticism now.

"Oh, yeah," said Sirius. "I forgot to explain that part. See…Peter…He had this ability to er…turn into a rat at will."

"Riiight," replied Harry. He let out a hollow laugh. "You really had me going for a while there."

"It's true!" Sirius insisted. "We all learned to—" he broke off. Harry didn't particularly care what he had been going to say. He just barrelled on.

"Of course, it's true. The man you claim is responsible for my parents' deaths and the deaths of twelve other Muggles, the _one man_ who can prove your innocence, just conveniently turned into a sewer rat. How could that _possibly _not be true? Dear God, you really are a nutter if you expect me to believe that."

"Please. Harry. You have to believe me."

"Why?" Harry asked. "Why should I?" He looked at Sirius, but Sirius had nothing to say. His grey eyes were filled with pleading, but Harry refused to be taken in by them again. He sighed. The throbbing in his head, almost forgotten during Sirius's narrative, had returned with a vengeance. He let himself fall back, laying on the floor staring up at the ceiling.

"Why did you bring me here?" he asked heavily. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you." Sirius said in a small voice. "Just you. You were supposed to be mine. Your parents named me your legal guardian if anything should ever happen to them. But you were taken from me. Everything was taken from me. I just wanted one small part of that back."

Harry let his head fall sideways to look at him. He was sitting curled up with his knees against his chest, rocking again. "So you just thought…what? That you'd kill my guardian and kidnap me and somehow we'd be the best of friends and go skipping off into the sunset together?"

"No. I don't know." He was gripping his head again, his eyes shut tight. "Everything's just so jumbled. I dunno what happened or what was supposed to happen or what did happen or what will happen. Thirteen years. Everything's so jumbled. I was in there for thirteen years, you know. Do you know what Azkaban does to a person? Jumbled."

"I'm beginning to get a pretty good idea," said Harry wryly. They were silent for a while as Sirius rocked backwards and forwards.

"You could still let me go," said Harry softly.

"NO!" Ah, well. It was worth a try. "You can't go! You and I…we're going to go away. Far away. Somewhere I can keep you safe.

"Safe from what?" asked Harry, exasperated.

"The rat! Don't you understand? He's there! He's at Hogwarts! He'll kill you. The minute it's in his favour, he'll kill you. Or turn you over to Voldemort."

Harry sighed. "Right. I forgot. The rat." They were back on the bleeding rat again.

"We'll go away," Sirius said. "We'll start over. You loved me once. You'll love me again. Just give me a chance."

Harry looked at him with hard eyes. "I could never love you." His voice was hard and expressionless and the words had an instantaneous effect on the man across from him. The older man's face crumpled, tears brimming in his eyes.

_No. Damn it, no. Stop it, Harry. I refuse to feel sorry for this man—this murderer. _Harry rubbed at his head again. "Look, I'm tired. And my head hurts. I just want to rest now."

"Yeah. I understand." Sirius avoided his eyes, nodding repetitively. "You should rest. Keep up your strength. I'll…I'll leave you to rest." Harry heard him retreat to the mouth of the cave.

After a few minutes he sat up and looked around. Sirius was nowhere to be seen. His eyes fell on the pasty and water. Well, it was true. No point starving. And he would need his strength. He glanced around again before snatching it up. The pasty was something of a cold, congealed mess, but Harry didn't care. Food was food. He gulped down the water.

As he finished the last few bites of pastry, he thought of the story Sirius had just told him and the story Remus had told him in his London flat what felt like so long ago. There were no overt contradictions. Remus had mentioned a betrayal… Maybe Remus hadn't really lied to him. Now that Harry thought about it, he was ashamed of himself for doubting Remus. This man, this murderer, _he _was the liar. He couldn't trust anything he said. Sirius was mad. Unstable. And Harry needed to get away from him.

He licked the last of the gravy off his fingers and looked around. No one. He listened for any indication that Sirius had stayed close, but he heard nothing. Now. He should go now. He felt stronger now that he had some food and water in him. And he might not get another chance like this.

He got up. His legs were wobbly, but they held. He looked around for anything he should take and decided on the blanket. He crept to the mouth of the cave, and poked his head out. He didn't see anything. He took another step out.

A whine sounded from behind him, making him jump out of his skin. He wheeled around and let out his breath in a whoosh.

"Dog. You nearly gave me a heart attack!" he whispered. He knelt down and took the large, black dog's soft face in his hands, stroking his ears. The dog looked back at him with sad eyes. He almost looked like he thought Harry was betraying him.

"Sorry buddy. But I gotta go. I can't stay here with you." The dog whined again. "_Shhh_. I need you to be very quiet now, okay?"

Harry turned away. He took another step out the cave, and abruptly the dog let out a resounding bark. Harry jumped again, eyes going wide in a panic. "_Shhhh_," he shushed again, trying desperately to calm the dog down, but he just let out another deafening bark.

It was now or never. He had to go. Before Sirius came back to see what all the ruckus was about. He raced out of the cave, pausing only half a moment to take his bearings.

They were on a mountainside. He thought he could make out smoke not far away in the valley below. A town, maybe? He couldn't stop. The barking continued. He scrambled over boulders, not taking the time to see if he was being followed. He paused again on a rocky outcropping, trying to get a better view. Yes, there was a town. And then he noticed something beyond it. His eyes widened. A mountain. _He knew that mountain_.

Suddenly, he was back, sitting on his log by the lake on the Hogwarts grounds, looking up at his mountain. That rocky mountain that didn't seem to fit with all the others around it. It was the same one, he was sure of it. It was a different angle and he was closer to it now, but that was it. They were near Hogwarts!

And then something rammed into him so hard he was winded. Strong arms wrapped around him and he was pulled back against a narrow chest. He clawed at the arms and his feet lost contact with the ground, but one didn't grow up on the streets without learning a few handy tricks to use in a fight. He swung his weight forward with all of his might and Sirius came crashing down before him. He scarcely had time for a triumphant thought, however, for as he stepped back, intending to run in the opposite direction, his foot made contact with an unseen rock and he stumbled. And then he was falling.

Over the ledge, he crashed through brambles and rocks, speeding down the mountain side. It was all so fast and so terrifying, he didn't even have time to register pain as his battered body made contact again and again with boulder after boulder.

And then his leg caught on something and there was a jerk and it all stopped. And then there was screaming.

Vaguely he was aware that it was his own screaming. And he heard a scrambling from above him, small rocks and pebbles skidding down the mountain face. Harry lay there gasping. He couldn't move. Everything hurt. Breathing hurt. All he could do was just lie there gasping, eyes staring up at the sky above him. The clouds were drifting by lazily, the wind was rustling the leaves of a nearby tree. It didn't fit. He gasped for breath.

Someone calling something he thought vaguely might be his name. He didn't respond. He just lay there. And then a face appeared before him, wide and terrified eyes.

"Oh God oh God oh God," the face was saying. "I'm so sorry, Harry. I'm so sorry." The face retracted for a moment then came back into Harry's line of sight. "I'm gonna get your leg free, okay Harry? I've got to move this boulder. Just hold on. Just hold on, Harry."

There was movement and then the pain redoubled. He arched his back and he screamed again. And the screams followed him once again into blackness.

* * *

**Harry was **lying on his back staring up at the sky with eyes wide, fixed on nothing. His mouth was gaping and his entire chest shuddered as he struggled to drag in gasping breaths. Sirius's hands hovered over the boy as he struggled to think what he could do. How he could help him. How he could stop himself from making things worse. He heaved his weight against the boulder that had trapped Harry's left leg. He didn't know where the strength came from, but the rock went rolling down the mountainside as he managed to dislodge it. Harry's leg was at an awkward angle. It shouldn't be at that angle. Maybe he should put it back the way it was supposed to go.

He reached down and moved to straighten it. Harry let out an ear-piercing scream before his whole body went limp.

Sirius burst into tears. He reached down and pulled the unconscious battered form of his godson into his arms and sobbed into the messy black hair that was so like his father's.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Harry. Oh, God. Please forgive me. Forgive me. Lily. James. Please. I'm so sorry."

And the tears fell. Tears that had been long overdue. Tears that he had never had the opportunity to shed for Lily and James, for his own tortured fate, for all the wrongs he had done and had been done to him. The tears kept falling, soaking the messy black hair below. The messy black hair that was so like James's. The tears fell, and he couldn't stop them. He didn't want to.

* * *

**Ron pushed** open the door to the fourth year boys' dormitory. It creaked on its hinges. Funny he'd never noticed that before. He stepped in the room and paused just over the threshold. Something felt off. Just…ever-so-slightly wrong. Like something was out of place. Or missing. It was a strange feeling, one he couldn't properly describe. But he thought he knew the cause. He glanced around the large circular room but determinedly did not let his eyes pause on any one point.

Ron forced his feet to move and crossed over to his own bed. He flung his pack down with disregard. A few of the snacks his mother had sent back with him rolled out. He ignored them. It was with a great deal more care and tenderness, however, that he reached into his pocket and pulled out a large, patchy-coloured rat. He lay the rat gently down on the bedspread. It just sat there, curling into a tight ball. Ron sighed. Scabbers had been looking poorly the past few days—lethargic, not eating well, losing hair. Scabbers had never exactly been the picture of athleticism, but this was not normal, even for him. He was getting old, Ron supposed. They must be nearing his time. It was strange. Ron had never thought himself particularly attached to Scabbers, but now it came to it, he couldn't imagine life without his reliable pet. Funny how the things important to you can sneak up on you like that.

As that thought crossed his mind, he couldn't help his eyes wandering to Harry's bed. There was nothing overtly wrong with the picture. Everything was exactly as it had been before he'd left for the Easter hols. _And therein lies the rub_. It was too much as it had been. Too untouched.

Before giving each of her children the patented Molly Weasley Hug, his mum had told them not to worry. To focus on their studies and let the adults take care of everything. Easier said than done. Ron hadn't known what to think at first, but the twins had given her a derisive eye-roll. They didn't think the adults had it under control either. But what could _he_ do about it? It really wasn't his problem anyway, was it?

Ron headed down the spiralling stairs and into the Common Room on his way to dinner. A gaggle of people were crowded around the House bulletin board chatting excitedly. Ron moved over to see what the ruckus was about. A noticed had been pinned to the board reading:

**UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE,  
ALL DEFENSE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS AND  
POTIONS CLASSES HAVE BEEN CANCELED**

Ron stood there a moment, staring at the notice and listening as a storm of wild speculation arose.

"I bet Snape finally did Lupin in and now he's on the run from the law!" a third year boy snickered to his gaggle of friends.

"Professor Lupin's been poorly for ages. What if he passed whatever he's got on to Professor Snape! Do you think we're all going to get sick?" said a hysterical first year girl with short brown pigtails.

"Don't worry," a Prefect assured her. "I'm sure they're just off at a teachers' convention of some sort. Those sorts of things are always going on." His expression, however, said he didn't actually to believe this. Ron didn't either. He couldn't remember any of the professors ever going to a convention—certainly not during the school year.

No, not one of the rumours Ron heard was even remotely close to the truth. Yes, Ron had no doubt of the real reason for the current absence of both Lupin and Snape. But it was clear the rest of the student body were to be kept in the dark. Without a word, he turned on his heel and climbed out of the portrait hole.

Five minutes later, Ron entered the Great Hall. Seamus and Dean, who had stayed at Hogwarts over the holidays, were already seated at the Gryffindor table. Their heads were bent over a parchment and they were laughing. They had saved Ron a seat. Ron stared at it for a moment, but did not move towards it.

"Hey, Ron!" Dean called when he spotted him. He and Seamus waved him over. He moved in their direction but did not sit down. "Did you hear about DADA and Potions being cancelled? Seamus and I are organising an impromptu Quidditch match during the designated Potions class tomorrow afternoon to celebrate. What position can we put you down for?"

But Ron was distracted. He had just caught sight of Neville Longbottom and Hermione Granger seated a little ways down the table. Both had their rucksacks with them; they had not had time to take them up to the dormitory before dinner. When the students had arrived back at Hogwarts that evening, Ron had noticed Professor McGonagall pull Neville and Hermione aside the minute they had stepped foot in the Entrance Hall. Even from across the hall, Ron could see her tell them she needed to speak to them before she proceeded to lead them off in the direction of her office. From Neville and Hermione's attitudes now, Ron had no doubts on the topic of their conversation.

"I'll be right back," he said distractedly in Seamus and Dean's direction. He was vaguely aware of Seamus giving Dean a what's-his-problem look, but he paid them no mind.

Ron walked slowly up to Neville and Hermione. He paused a few feet away. Neville was picking at his plate with his fork, his cheek slumped in the other hand. Hermione was not even pretending to eat; her plate was empty and she was staring at the table, he eyes flickering back and forth, not focused on anything. She was thinking hard. Neither noticed Ron standing there.

"Er…Can I join you?" Both gave identical starts and looked up at Ron with wide eyes. It might have been humorous under different circumstances. Then Hermione gave a shrug and returned to her study of the table top. Neville gave a week attempt at a smile and gestured to the place to his right. Ron stepped over the bench and sat down. By the time he had done so, both seemed to have forgotten him.

He didn't speak for a minute. Why did this feel so awkward? He'd spoken to Neville and Hermione before, hadn't he? Hadn't he? _Huh. _Maybe he hadn't really… He'd never really cared much for Hermione. She was a bossy, know-it-all from the moment he'd first met her on the Hogwarts Express. And in first year she'd overheard him making fun of her with Seamus and Dean and she'd pretty much avoided him after that. And Neville, well…despite having slept in the same dormitory every night for the past four years, Ron had never really talked much with Neville. Neville just had a way flying under the radar.

Ron cleared his throat nervously. "I, er…I saw you talking with Professor McGonagall. Was it about Harry?" Hermione looked at him sharply.

"What do you mean?" she snapped. "What do you know about Harry?"

Ron shrugged. "My dad works for the Ministry. And he's been helping Dumbledore look for him. Dad…he keeps me updated."

Neville sat up straight and Hermione's demeanour changed completely. She looked at Ron with wide desperate eyes and began talking very fast. "Tell me everything! What does he know? Has there been any progress? What have they found out? Where do—"

"Hermione!" Neville interjected. "If you want to hear the answers, you're gonna have to _let him answer_." Hermione snapped her mouth shut, audibly. Both were now looking at Ron expectantly.

"Well," he said nervously. "I don't know what answers I can give. Truth be told, I don't think there _has _been much progress. Dad says the whole Ministry is running around like a cockatrice with its head cut off. I heard him telling Mum that the Ministry hasn't a hope of finding him. He reckons it's all down to Dumbledore."

"But they must be doing something!"

Ron shrugged again. "Sure, but they haven't got anything to go on. No direction. They've just pulled a bunch of people off their normal duties to search, but none of them know where to start. Dad says the Ministry's planning on pulling back on the search if they don't turn up anything by the end of the week. Fudge thinks it's taking up too much manpower."

"What?" cried Neville. "They're just giving up?"

Ron sighed. "Dad doesn't think they'll give up _entirely_. He says Fudge will have to keep up appearances for the public. He's been trying to hush up Harry's part in all this, but Dad says if they don't find him soon, Fudge is going to have to make an announcement to the press. And when he does, he'll need to be able to say that the Ministry's doing everything in their power to get Harry back."

"I'd wondered," said Hermione thoughtfully. "I mean, I was getting the Daily Prophet at my parents' house, and it was filled with stuff about Sirius Black's escape—it was even on the Muggle news—but not once did they mention Harry!"

"Why didn't they release it the moment it happened?" Neville asked. "People would know to be on the lookout for him."

"Probably too concerned about their image," Hermione said bitterly.

Ron nodded. "Dad says that Fudge took a lot of heat when Harry went missing the first time. People said he should have been keeping a better eye on him. Dad reckons that if Fudge has to admit that he lost him a second time, that'll be it for his career. People will be demanding his resignation."

"Serves him right," mumbled Hermione.

"Well he can't keep it quiet for much longer. If they don't find Harry soon…" Ron trailed off.

The three of them sat in silence for a long moment, lost in miserable thought.

"UGH!" Hermione let out a frustrated sound, slamming her fist down on the table and making several second years down the table jump. "I just can't help thinking about how I was sitting at home, having a nice relaxing holiday with my family, and all the while, Harry was out there, kidnapped by a raving psychopath, enduring who-knows-what! God only knows what he's been through. And I didn't do a thing about it!"

"Stop it." Neville's voice had a firm tone to it Ron had never heard from him. "That doesn't help. You can't keep thinking about it that way. This isn't your fault. Dumbledore and the others, they're going to find him. They are. I just know it. And when they do, it doesn't matter what he's been through, because we're going to be here to help him through it. Right?" He looked at Hermione sternly until she nodded in agreement.

Ron felt awkward. Out of place. This was a moment to be shared by two friends worried about a third. He wasn't a part of this group. He shifted uncomfortably, looking away to give them privacy. When he glanced back, however, he found Neville looking at him with that same stern expression. "Are you in?" he said, almost daring Ron to say 'no.'

Ron's eyes widened in response. He glanced at Hermione who was looking right back, face unreadable, waiting for an answer. Ron licked his lips. "I'm in." Neville nodded, satisfied. He went back to picking at his plate as silence fell again. Ron took the moment to load up his own plate.

After a time, Hermione spoke again. "I just feel so useless. I just wish there was something I could do _now_."

"What did McGonagall want from you?" Ron asked.

"She wanted to know if Harry ever mentioned any places from before he came to Hogwarts. They're trying to get an idea of where he might go if he managed to escape."

"And what did you tell her?"

"Nothing!" said Hermione. "There's nothing we could tell her! Harry doesn't talk about his life before he came here. Ever. Anytime the conversation looks to be headed that way, he always changes the subject."

_So not much to go on there_, thought Ron. Silence fell again.

"What does Black even want with Harry?" It was Neville's turn to break the silence.

"I don't know," said Hermione. "McGonagall said he was mad. If that's the case, I'm not sure his motivations mean much of anything."

"Yeah…It's just…I dunno, I got the impression McGonagall wasn't telling us something."

Ron was chewing on his lip, avoiding the eyes of the others. But something of his thoughts must have shown on his face because Hermione said firmly, "What do you know?"

Ron started. Both of them were looking directly at him now. He licked his lips. "I—I dunno anything…"

"Ron. Please."

Ron sighed. "Over the holidays. Fred and George and I…we heard Mum and Dad talking after they thought we'd all gone to bed. We, er…went downstairs to, er…"

"'Spy?'" Hermione supplied dryly.

"Well, yeah," admitted Ron. "Anyway, Mum asked the same question, and Dad…he said they had two theories. And frankly I'm not sure which I prefer. First: That Black thinks that by using Harry, Black can revive You-Know-Who."

"Can he do that?" interjected Neville, worriedly. "I mean, they say he was You-Know-Who's right-hand man, after all."

"Dad says that Dumbledore thinks it might be possible. He said there's some kind of Dark potion that calls for 'blood of the enemy' or something. He thinks Black may be attempting to brew it with Harry's blood."

All three took in this horrible thought for a moment. "What's the second theory?" asked Hermione finally, clearly stealing herself.

Ron took a deep breath. "Second: That Black simply wants revenge. That he blames Harry for You-Know-Who's down fall and his imprisonment and he wants to kill Harry. Dad said—" he cut off, looking at the other two. They were both waiting attentively. "He…he said that the fact that Black took Harry—that he didn't just kill him then and there…it would seem to imply he doesn't simply want Harry dead. He wants him to suffer. He wants to…" he faltered. He looked at Hermione. There were tears in her eyes, but she met his gaze unflinchingly. He thought she knew what he was trying to say, but she needed him to finish. "He wants to torture him," he said at last.

And again, that terrible silence.

"They're going to find him," Neville said again, just as firmly, for all that the tears in his eyes belied it. "They're going to find him, and we're going to help him through it."

"You're right," said Hermione brushing tears out of her own eyes. She reached down to gather her rucksack and got to her feet. "But in the meantime, I can't just sit here feeling useless."

"Where are you going?"

"The library."

"What in the name of Merlin do you expect to find there?" asked Ron.

"I don't know," admitted Hermione. "But there's got to be something in there about Black. What he did to land him in Azkaban. If we have more background on him, we might be able to get a clearer picture of his motives."

"Wait for me," said Neville, snatching up his own pack.

Hermione nodded to him. "And I want to talk to Professor McGonagall," she added. "I want to find out more about this potion that could be used to revive You-Know-Who. Maybe Professor McGonagall will give us permission to use the Restricted Section."

"Fat chance of that," muttered Ron sceptically.

"Ron, if you can't say something positive, than keep your thoughts to yourself!" Hermione snapped at him. "Now are you in or aren't you?"

It was a testament to Ron Weasley's character that—even on an empty stomach with an untouched dinner plate before him; even at the prospect of facing their very stern Head of House; even at the idea of spending the rest of the evening in the library, a place Ron avoided like the plague—he did not pause even for a fraction of a second before saying, "I'm in."

* * *

**A/N: **Apparently I'm just going to be apologising for the long wait every single chapter now. Sorry. But I'm on summer hols now, so hopefully I'll have time to write (my last summer off ever X'0 ). I'm off to Guatemala in a couple weeks and won't be coming back until I've saved the word (or you know…in a month…whichever comes first). I hope to have time to write down there, but I probably won't have a reliable internet connection to post. We'll just have to see. Sorry again for the long wait. And sorry if there are typos…I was a bit lazy on the editing for this chapter. Too eager to just get it posted. As always, please review!


	23. 22 Risking Heartache

**Chapter 22  
Risking Heartache**

**Dumbledore stood** once again at his office window, staring out over the grounds. The last beam of sunshine was falling across the lawns and the crescent moon was already reflected in the still waters of the lake. Even in the semi-darkness he could make out Hagrid collecting an armful of firewood from the stack outside his hut. The lights in his windows stood out brightly against the blackness of the forest. Dumbledore found it strange how he could look out this window every day and yet no two times was the view exactly the same.

He heard the door to his office open behind him. He did not turn around immediately. He did not need to. He knew who it would be.

"I wasn't sure that you would come," Dumbledore said to the man behind him. Still he did not turn, preferring to contemplate the thestral which was now soaring above the trees in the distance. Some considered them an omen of death. He had never believed this, but it was hard not to read into its meaning on a night like tonight.

"You told me to check in. I'm checking in." The voice was sullen and begrudging. The tone told him all he needed to know. But still, he should ask.

"And?" Dumbledore turned around and at last met Remus's eyes.

Remus looked much as he did the day after a full moon. He had clearly not slept in days. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his chin was shadowed by several days' growth of a beard. His clothes were travel-worn and creased, his hair unkempt. He was taking it badly. Dumbledore would not have expected otherwise, of course, but it still made him sad to see it.

Remus sighed and sank into the chair across from Dumbledore's desk. He was clearly exhausted. "And nothing," he said, his voice cracking hoarsely. "There's nothing. I've checked everywhere I could think of. Everywhere from our past. And there's nothing. Black's probably fled the country by now and taken Harry with him."

Dumbledore was silent for a moment. Did Remus really believe that? Could he really be in such a state of denial that he did not know what was happening here? That Black may have fled the country by now, Dumbledore acknowledged as a very real possibility, but that he would have taken Harry with him? It was absurd. Could Remus, one of the most rational men he knew, really be so blinded by grief as to believe that Black would slow himself down with a fourteen-year-old boy? That Black would have any reason to keep the boy alive for so long?

Dumbledore knew Remus. He would set out to search the entire world for Harry, never bothering to eat nor sleep. He would obsess over this until it killed him. Dumbledore had witnessed what Harry's disappearance had done to him the first time, but now… Now after having faced his guilt at having deserted Harry before... Now after having over four months to attach himself to the boy... No, Remus was never going to let this go.

Remus needed to begin to guard himself against the increasingly real possibility that they would never find Harry. Dumbledore would not give up looking for him—not after what had happened last time—but it seemed that this situation was all the more hopeless. And if Remus did not recognise that… It was going to destroy him. Dumbledore was loathe to dismantle the hope that Remus clearly still clung to. Hope was a fundamental requisite of life. Dumbledore believed faithfully in the very great power of hope. But that power could go in two directions: to restore or to destroy. It was a gamble. To hope is to risk heartache, for hope makes the fall that much greater.

"Perhaps it is time that you came back to school, Remus." Dumbledore said gently. He must pick his words carefully. "Hogwarts needs you here. Your classes have been cancelled for two weeks now."

Remus was looking at him like there was a Puffskein perched on his nose. "When could I possibly have time for teaching?" Remus asked as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Dumbledore looked at the younger man gently. "Remus. You have done what you could do for Harry. We will keep looking. But you must consider the possibility that Harry—"

"Stop!" Remus interrupted. "Stop," he said again. "I don't want to hear it." He rose to his feet and moved to the door. "If you need me, you know how to contact me."

"Where will you look?" Dumbledore asked, sadly as Remus reached the door. The younger man paused, hand on the door knob.

"Everywhere, if I have to," replied Remus. And then he was gone.

Silence fell in the office in his absence. Dumbledore sat in the failing light, staring at the door after Remus.

After a moment, he said into the darkness, "He is taking it badly."

"You are worried he may do something foolish?" Snape replied, materializing out of the shadows in the corner.

"I think he wishes he had done something foolish the last time. And he will jump at the opportunity to do so now to make up for it."

There was silence. Snape traced his lips with a finger as he waited for Dumbledore to collect his thoughts and return to the reason he was there.

"And you, Severus? Have you discovered anything new?"

"Little of use," Snape replied. "Most of the former Death Eaters I have tried to contact still do not trust me fully. I did gather that they are looking for Potter, themselves. Seems to imply that Black is working alone."

"Likely," said Dumbledore, turning all the information over in his mind, looking for any new pattern, anything that he might have overlooked.

"Keep trying, Severus. It is still possible that someone knows more than he is saying."

Dumbledore turned his head to gaze out the window. "They must be somewhere."

* * *

**A soft, warm** weight was pressed against his left side when he came to. It was warm and reassuring. Harry did not open his eyes. Not yet.

He felt a strange numbness; strange in that he felt numb and, at the same time, not numb at all. Every centimetre of his body ached, but his brain seemed to dull it away. He recognised the feeling; it was familiar. It was a feeling he had experienced many times in his childhood. In a way, he found it comforting. He knew this was perverse, but, in this unnatural world, he found comfort in anything which felt familiar; whether that familiarity be from happy memories or sad was irrelevant. And so he clung to the strange, numbing ache.

Harry drew in a deep breath before opening his eyes at last. A sharp, piercing pain caused his chest to spasm. Yes, he recognised that feeling too. Broken ribs. He tried to draw in slow, shallow breaths as the pain receded. He stared at the ceiling of the cave, keeping his mind blank. There was nothing but him and the pain. Gradually his muscles relaxed.

The weight by his side shifted and seemed to roll over. Harry's brain did not know what the weight was, but his fingers seemed to, for they stretched out and buried themselves in soft fur. His head turned to look where his fingers led the way and, as his hand met the bony form beside him, the dog jerked awake.

The dog sat up, turning his head this way and that, looking befuddled. He then turned its gaze upon Harry. When he saw that Harry's eyes were open, he let out an excited sort of whimper and began wagging his tail with an enthusiasm which had his whole rear end swinging back and forth and a cloud of dust being brushed up. Despite his eagerness, however, the dog kept a slight distance from Harry and held a submissive posture, low to the ground. It was as though he were unsure of how Harry would receive him. Harry immediately took pity on him.

"It's alright, boy," he said gently, holding out a hand to the dog. "I know you didn't mean for this to happen," he gestured to his battered and bruised body. "It was just an accident. My own bloody fault."

The dog gave a small, happy yelp and bounded over to the outstretched hand. He buried his face in the palm of Harry's hand, turning his head to encourage Harry to scratch behind his ears. Harry obliged. The dog then proceed to give Harry's cheek a long, slobbery lick.

Harry struggled to sit up, wanting a better position with which to give the dog his due attention and belly rubs. He shifted his legs for leverage and abruptly let out a shocked cry of pain. He fell back onto his back, his chest heaving with his struggle to master the pain which seemed to be shooting up his left leg into his very heart. _Pain is familiar. Savour the familiarity, _he reminded himself. _Let it go numb. Control It. Master it. _Make _it go numb._

When the pain subsided, he gradually returned to the present. He lifted his head from the ground, bracing his upper body on his elbows to look down at the offending leg. Someone had set it in a splint, but still, it was clearly not quite at the right angle. His pyjama pants were torn and stained with blood, enough so that Harry suspected the fracture had penetrated the skin, though he could not see the bone now. Sirius had clearly attempted to reset the fracture, but badly.

A whimper brought Harry's attention back to the dog beside him. He was sitting straight up now, his ears perked. He was looking fast between Harry and the mouth of the cave, seeming torn in indecision. Harry lay himself back down, wincing as his ribs protested. That seemed to make up the mind of the dog. He stood and made toward the cave mouth.

"Wait!" Harry called after what had become his only friend. "Where are you going?" The dog paused, turned back and gave Harry one more slobbery kiss. Then he positively cantered for the exit. Harry let out a sigh in a puff of air and stared up at the ceiling.

He listened to the sounds about him, wondering where the dog had gone. He heard nothing. Just the wind in the trees outside the cave and the chirping of birds beyond. But then a sound met his ears—probably the sound which had had the dog running for the exit. A crunching of gravel outside the mouth of the cave. Then a shadow appeared, extending menacingly toward Harry. Harry turned his head to watch as it approached, shrinking in size as it did so, until the thin form of Sirius materialised. Harry carefully fixed his expression into a glower.

Sirius crouched down beside Harry—close, but carefully not too close. He was silent for a moment. Harry kept up his glowering.

"I'm sorry," said Sirius, at last. He was staring at his hands, wringing them worriedly. He looked pitiful. And that made Harry even angrier. He did _not _want to pity this man.

"Oh, that's nice of you," said Harry sarcastically.

"I didn't mean to—"

"Forget it!" Harry interrupted fiercely. He didn't want to hear it. He made to roll over—he didn't even want to look at this man who seemed bent on ruining his life. Not least because he was looking more and more pathetic by the minute. But as he turned his back, his leg and back screamed in protest. Harry sucked in his breath sharply. He squeezing his eyes shut, willing himself to breathe through the pain.

"You're in pain," stated Sirius miserably. It wasn't a question. "I tried to mend your leg, but I'm lousy with broken bones. I'm sorry." Dimly, through the pain, Harry heard him rummaging through a sack.

"I got you some healing draughts." There was the sound of a bottle being unstoppered. "Here," came Sirius's voice. "This one is for the pain."

"I don't want it," Harry gritted out. He refused to take anything from this man. He refused to owe him anything to this murderer.

And then Harry realised something. Even through the pain, even through the anger, he realised something. His head was clear. The fuzziness was gone. He reached tentatively into his magic and felt it well up inside him, clean and pure.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, a slow, secret smile spread across Harry's lips.

* * *

**Hermione shifted** a stack of newspapers digging deeper into the pile that had been backlogged in the deepest corner of the library.

"What, in the name of Merlin, do you expect to find in those?" asked Ron incredulously.

"I don't know," admitted Hermione impatiently, not taking her eyes away from her work. "But I'll know it when I see it."

"But these papers go all the way back to the '50s! Not even you can sort through all these. How do you even know where to start?"

She shifted another stack of papers, skimming through their dates. "That article in the _Prophet _last week—announcing Black's escape—it said Black had been in Azkaban for over thirteen years. We'll start there. See if we can find out exactly what happened the night he was arrested."

"So, what? You're going to read every single paper that's over thirteen years old? That'll take forever!"

"He murdered thirteen people in cold blood, Ron," Hermione snapped. "That's bound to be front page news! All I have to do is skim through the headlines." _April 30, 1986…_No she needed to go farther. She lifted the top of the stack and added it to the growing one on the opposite side of the table. A cloud of dust erupted as they slammed down. Madam Pince glared at her from where she was busy prowling through the shelves, but Hermione was too distracted to look guilty for the noise. _November 17, 1981._ This looked more promising.

"But still!" objected Ron. "'Over thirteen years' is not that specific. It's going to take us hours to sort through all this, and I for one am starving. Let's just take a lunch break and then we can come back. By the time we find anything—"

"Found it," interrupted Hermione. She felt a surge of self-satisfaction at the flabbergasted look on Ron's face. She shook out the paper, giving Ron a smug smile before turning to it to read aloud. "November the second, nineteen eighty-one."

"That was just two days after Harry defeated You-Know-Who," Neville spoke up for the first time in a while. He pushed aside the tome on wizarding genealogy he had been reading and moved around to look at the paper over Hermione's shoulder. Ron did the same.

"'Yesterday, Ministry Hit-Wizards from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement apprehended Sirius Black, a purported Death Eater spy, after he allegedly caused an explosion in a prominent Muggle street in the Bristol city centre. The explosion, delivered from a single curse, resulted in the deaths of thirteen people and injured eighteen others. Among the deceased was a wizard, Peter Pettigrew, who was Black's intended victim. Reportedly, Pettigrew had tracked down Black, intending to make a citizen's arrest for the crimes Black had committed as a Death Eater. Minister, Millicent Bagnold announced today that Peter Pettigrew is to be awarded an Order of Merlin, Third Class posthumously, for his bravery. Pettigrew is survived by his mother, Agnes, resident of Cardiff. A service will be held…' etcetera, etcetera…" Hermione trailed off.

All three were silent for a bit, staring at the picture above the article. It depicted a large crater in the middle of a street. Ministry officials were scurrying about, attempting to secure the area and tend to the wounded and perform memory charms on witnesses.

"Well, that didn't tell us much we didn't already know," said Ron, finally. "I mean, we already knew he was a mass murderer…"

"I suppose…" said Hermione, distantly, her mind elsewhere.

"What are you thinking?" asked Neville.

"I don't know," replied Hermione with a sigh. "I'd like to find out more about this 'Peter Pettigrew.' Why he took it upon himself to try to capture Black. I mean, he clearly wasn't an Auror or anything, so it must have been personal…"

"Well, I'll start researching Pettigrew, then," said Neville. "I'm not getting much here anyway." He closed the genealogy book with a snap. "The whole Black family certainly looks pretty dirty—they prided themselves on the purity of their blood and supported all sorts of anti-Muggle legislation over the years. But I'm not finding anything on Sirius Black himself.

"Maybe Pettigrew will be a better lead. It's a place to start anyhow."

"How about you, Ron? What have you found in the school records?"

"A whole lot of nothing. The only mention I've found of Black so far from his school days is that he won an award in fifth year for some school competition in innovative spellwork. I mean, what use is it to us that he and his team members…" he looked down at a sheaf of parchments to read, "'Invented a locator spell that could mark a person's precise position on a piece of parchment.' Whoa, that's actually pretty cool. He must have been smart. And—" He cut off abruptly, looking at the parchment. "Oh," he said. He then leaned over and looked at the newspaper still in front of Hermione. Then back at his parchment. He handed it over to the others slowly. "Look who his project partners were."

Hermione took the parchment and read aloud, "James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew." She lowered the paper and the three looked at each other silently.

After a moment, Neville broke the stillness. "So….Black, Harry's dad, our Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, and the man that Sirius Black murdered? They all knew each other at school?"

"And Black murders Pettigrew the day after Harry's dad dies," added Ron.

"This can't be a coincidence," said Hermione resolutely. "There's no way."

"Okay, agreed. But what's the next step?" asked Ron.

No one seemed to have an answer to that. They stared at each other once again.

"Should we just ask Professor Lupin?" suggested Hermione tentatively.

"Well, he's not here, is he? He's off trying to find Harry," argued Ron.

"Well, then," supplied Neville. "I guess we just keep looking. Try to find the connection. And what it means for Harry."

"Okay," said Hermione decisively. "Neville, you see what you can find on Pettigrew. Ron, look into the night Harry's parent's died. See if there's anything we don't already know. I'll keep digging up what I can about Black."

And with that, she jumped to her feet to roam through the stacks, pulling down any book which looked even remotely helpful. All the while wondering if there was any point to all this at all. But she couldn't just sit there doing nothing.

* * *

**A few days** went by, and Harry felt his strength returning. He continued to refuse the pain relieving draughts from Sirius—he had other plans for those—but he took the offered food and drink readily; he needed to regain his strength quickly, and nourishment would help with that.

He began trying to exercise his leg a little each day. He would wait until Sirius left the cave to do this. He never knew where Sirius went or why, but he took advantage of the solitude each time. He would pace the length of the cavern, ducking around stalactites and rocky outcroppings. The pain was intense, but he forced himself on. He had reached the point that he could take several laps of the cavern at a time, but even this small feat was exhausting and excruciating. But Harry was determined, and so each day he did one lap more than the day before. Some days the dog would come in and watch him. He never interfered—just sat in the corner of the cave, watching Harry with his head cocked and his ears down against his head dejectedly.

Harry also began to exercise his magic. He never did anything overt in case Sirius decided to come into the cave unexpectedly—he wanted to keep one ace up his sleeve. But he practiced grasping his magic, letting it flow through him, elevating small objects like pebbles in the darkest corner of the cave where they would be unnoticed. He could feel his mind clearing with every passing day—his magic strengthening and that in turn strengthening his body and strengthening his resolve. It was time.

And so it was that about a week following the incident in which his leg was broken, Harry found himself lying in the cave, waiting for his moment. Sirius had been out for some time, leaving Harry alone. He never told Harry where he was going or how long he would be gone, but it was never long.

On this particular day, Sirius wandered back into the cave after a relatively long absence of about half an hour. He walked in, paused to look at Harry, then moved over to the fire.

"I got you another pain reliever, in case you change your mind," said Sirius, setting down a vial next to the two that were already there after having been previously refused. He did not look optimistic that Harry would accept it.

It was the cue that Harry had been waiting for. He swallowed hard, gathering his resolve, and stumbled to his feet. He put a hand to the wall of the cave to steady him as he stood there, looking straight at Sirius. It took Sirius a moment to realise that Harry was standing. When he did, he stopped what he was doing and looked confusedly at Harry.

"What are you doing?" he asked, as Harry raised his hand slowly, still staring at Sirius. "You're going to hurt your leg even more. Sit down, boy."

Harry took a deep breath, his hand raised, palm toward Sirius and let the magic flow through him. And Sirius froze. Harry watched as every muscle in Sirius body contracted. His head snapped back, his jaw clamped shut. He looked at Harry with shocked and horrified eyes. Harry stood there, unfeeling, holding the curse, watching Sirius slowly suffocate as he struggled to draw breath.

"You killed Remus," Harry said. Even he was surprized at the deadly calm in his voice. "You killed my parents. I could kill you now." He could do it. He should do it. He could just stand here, holding the curse, flexing every muscle in Sirius's body until it chocked the life out of him.

Sirius's jaw struggled against the curse. He was trying to say something. Harry had to know. He wanted to know what defence Sirius could possibly offer himself at this moment. What he could possibly have to say to the son of the people he murdered. He released the curse and Sirius crumpled to the ground.

"I'm sorry," Sirius whimpered, curling into a ball and rocking on the ground, gasping for breath. "I'm so sorry, James."

And Harry felt his heart stop. Sirius looked so pitiful on the ground. So broken. _Kill him,_ said a voice in Harry's head. _Kill him now!_ But he stood there and looked at the shattered shell of a man before him and Harry knew. He knew he couldn't do it. He deserved it. But he couldn't do it. Not like this. Not with an enemy whose mind was too far gone to even attempt defending himself. Not with a man who couldn't even recognise the difference between Harry and his father. He couldn't do it.

"Come after me again, come anywhere near me, and I_ will_ kill you," Harry said in no uncertain terms. Then without so much as a second of doubt or remorse, he grasped his magic, raised a rock, and brought it crashing down on the other man's head. Sirius crumpled, a trickle of blood running down his temple.

Harry stood there for a moment staring at the unconscious man before him. Then he limped over and removed the wand—Remus's wand—from Sirius's pocket. Then to the fire. He downed one of the pain-relieving draughts on the spot, and placed the other two in a pocket. He would need them on the hike ahead of him. He looked around the cavern for anything else he should take. Nothing caught his eye. His eyes fell one last time on the unconscious Sirius.

And then he moved out to mouth of the cave, blinking in the light outside. He looked up at his mountain, orienting himself. He pointed himself in the direction that he prayed was Hogwarts and began limping.

* * *

**Dusk was falling** on the castle as Pomona Sprout hastened her way through the front doors of the castle. Professor Snape had requested some Asphodel root for a potion a few days prior and she had quite forgotten to dig it up for him. And he would be leaving again early in the morning.

She must hurry now. The sun was setting and the doors to the castle would be locked soon. These new security measures that had been placed on the castle were quite an inconvenience. At least Dumbledore had had the sense to ensure that the Dementors Fudge had insisted on stationing would not be permitted near the castle. She could hardly imagine trying to teach in the greenhouses with those terrors gliding about.

She bustled down the stone steps leading from the castle and made her way across the lawn toward the greenhouses. She shivered. The night was chill. Unusually chill. Abruptly she realised something was wrong. That was not the natural chill of a spring night. There was more to it. And as terrible memories began to swirl through her head, she realised precisely what it was.

She jerked her head toward the distant front gates. Sure enough, she saw a collection of Dementors swarming, converging on a small figure. Her stunned brain watched horrified as the figure ran desperately in the direction of the castle, stumbling awkwardly. She saw bursts of light of varied colours emanating from the figure's wand. He clearly did not know what spell to use and was merely trying anything he could think of.

The figure was small. Was it a child? A student? Something clinked into place in Professor Sprout's mind and suddenly she was running to meet the figure, pulling out her wand as she did so.

"Expecto Patronum!" she shouted, and a silver hedgehog shot out of her wand in the direction of the boy. It reached him just as a Dementor was bearing down, and the hedgehog circled him protectively. The Dementors retreated swiftly, fading into the darkness beyond.

The boy—for at this distance, she was now quite sure it was a boy—swayed on his feet. His eyes turned slowly in Professor Sprout's direction. Then as she watched, he crumpled toward the ground, too far gone to even catch himself.

She rushed to his side. He was lying face down on the ground, clearly unconscious. He was dressed in tattered rags of what she suspected had once been flannel pyjamas. He had no shoes on, and there appeared to be some kind of splint on his left leg which stuck out at an awkward angle. His hair was matted and so dirty she could barely tell what colour it was.

A nearly paralysing feeling of trepidation gripped her, but Professor Sprout forced herself to take the last few steps up to the boy. She reached out a hand, gripped the boy's shoulder, and turned him over. His head lulled as he flipped onto his back.

Professor Sprout brought her hands to her mouth in a vain attempt to contain a strangled sob_. Harry. Dear God, Harry._ Nearly every centimetre of skin visible was covered in layers of bruises and dried blood and dirt. He looked as if he'd been beaten to within an inch of his life.

She knelt down beside the boy slowly. She trailed her fingers across the boy's battered cheek to rest at his neck. A pulse beat evenly under her fingers. _Thank God._ She raised her wand and once again fired off her trusty hedgehog, this time in the direction of the castle. She would need help. Then she situated herself on the ground to wait and gathered Harry's small form in her arms, cradling his head to her chest. Tears ran down her cheeks.

"It's going to be alright, Harry," she said softly in his ear, though she doubted he could hear her. "It's going to be alright," she said to herself.


End file.
